The Dynamics of Risk
by BullDemon
Summary: "I'd normally agree with you, Detective, however at the moment, I'm selfishly wondering why we don't consider our own lives to be as precious as the ones we endeavor to save." Harold Finch
1. Chapter 1

Greetings readers and fellow POI fans. This is my first attempt at writing a POI story – I've previously dabbled in the "MacGyver" and "Stargate SG-1" fandoms, and deicded to try something different.

This story is set in mid to late Season 2. The gang's all here – Reese, Finch, Carter, Fusco, and Bear. There is some blood, but nothing more than we've seen on the show. There are no parings, only good friends uniting to come through tough times.

Thanks to KaiDromeda and Wuchell1 for finding my mistakes and keeping me going when writers block tried to slow me down.

I'll try to post every Thursday. Reviews are appreciated.

Enjoy

The seemingly uncontrolled hustle of the New York City morning commute could be overwhelming at best. Thousands of people weaving their way through, over, and around one another, all striving to reach their destination as quickly as possible. Horns honked, airbrakes hissed, and disgruntled voices rose and fell in time to the repeating pattern of the traffic lights strung high above the city streets. Pedestrians flocked together on curbs, and bicyclists sped almost haphazardly through the ever-changing landscape.

Perched safely above the mayhem, an old stone building stood sentry. It was a library, but no patron ever entered to borrow a book or to research the answer to some pressing question. This library was different. It was special. Owned and maintained by a reclusive billionaire, it served as a home base for one the city's most vital assets. An asset it didn't even know it had.

Surrounded by dusty stacks of catalogued books, a cobbled together computer sat atop a cluttered desk. Bulletin boards peppered with scraps of photos and notes defined the workstation that was set up within the library's massive main hall. Large panes of frosted glass filtered the harsh morning sun, resulting in a warm, pleasant glow. Protected from the chaos and immediacy of the streets below, the mood was almost peaceful.

Harold Finch, expert hacker and technological genius, sat before the computer, his hands gliding effortlessly over the keys. He had been at it for several hours already; researching the latest Number The Machine had relayed to him through a payphone earlier that morning. The Machine, a program of his own design, was able to predict premeditated crimes, giving him and his associates the chance to stop them before they occurred. Originally designed to help prevent acts of terror in the post 9/11 world, Harold had made it his mission to help save the victims of crimes the government felt to be irrelevant.

A forceful sneeze prompted Harold to glance down at the dog on the floor by his feet. Bear, a fawn colored Belgian Malinois, lounged on his bed with a tennis ball wedged firmly between his front paws. He was diligently striping the jacket from the ball's surface, and had managed to coat both himself and much of the floor with florescent green fluff. Harold frowned at the mess, but didn't command the dog to stop. Bear was occupied, and that meant he could work at his computer without interruption.

It was just past seven when the sounds of jangling keys and the security gate being slid open broke into the pleasant hush of the library. Harold watched from the corner of his eye as Bear leapt to his feet and bolted down the hall, an excited whine escaping him as he went. A moment later, he heard the skid of toenails and a soft grunt, followed by several words spoken in Dutch.

"Naar beneden." (Down)

"Wachten." (Wait)

He could picture the Malinois going as still as a statue, waiting for his owner to give the next command.

Tock…Tock…Tock… A tennis ball bounced on the floor.

 _Tock tock…tock tock…tock tock…_ Two tennis balls bounced on the floor.

Tock tock tock…tock tock tock…tock tock tock…

 _Three balls_? Harold stiffly turned his shoulders in an attempt to see down the hall. _Just what are those two doing over there?_

"Zoeken!" (Seek)

The sound of scrabbling feet and an over zealous dog crashing bodily into furniture floated down to where Harold sat.

"Vinden." (Find it)

There was a muffled, anxious bark, followed by scrape of more furniture being moved.

"Goede jongen!" (Good boy)

Bear trotted around the corner a moment later, his head held high and all three tennis balls clutched in his mouth.

"Practicing stupid pet tricks, Mr. Reese?" he asked as his associate made his way into the main hall.

John Reese, ex-CIA operative and an expert in all things lethal, set a box of breakfast pastries on Harold's desk. "The world record for a dog holding tennis balls in his mouth is five. I think Bear could beat it by at least three."

Both men turned to Bear, who was still holding the bright green balls between his jaws and happily wagging his tail. The guard dog looked ridiculous.

"Perhaps you should lower your standards."

"Laten vallen." (Drop)

All three balls hit the floor as soon as John gave the command. "Or just be thankful he favors tennis balls over stray cats," he muttered, watching as Bear hooked one of the balls in his paws and began ripping the felt from its surface. He nodded toward the bank of computers. "We have a new Number, Finch?"

"As a matter of fact, we do." Pushing back from the table, Harold stood and limped over to the nearest bulletin board. "Tell me, Mr. Reese, how do you feel about horses?"

"Horses?" John hadn't expected such a question. He immediately envisioned a person with unpaid track debt or maybe a trainer being strong-armed to fix a race. "I think they're beautiful creatures. Why?"

"Because it will make interacting with this Number much easier." Harold picked up a photo and stuck it to the glass. In it a woman was standing beside a remarkable black horse, her arms embracing its massive neck. "Maggie Barton: a thirty-seven year old equine enthusiast and down home country girl. She owns a sizable property several hours north of here where she runs a rather lucrative breeding and training program."

"And the horse?"

"'The Count of Monte Christo,' or 'Count' for short." Harold returned to his computer and tapped at the keyboard, triggering a patchwork of photographs and text to appear on the main monitor. "He's a twelve year old Tennessee Walking Horse with foundation bloodlines and a pedigree traceable back to the 1930's. According to Mrs. Barton's website, Stepping Pace Acres currently has six stallions at stud, but Count is the farm's biggest draw. He's won numerous World Grand Champion titles, and his color, movement, and gentle disposition make him highly desirable to breeders. For five thousand dollars, you can have a vial of cooled semen sent to your door, or for ten thousand, a live breeding with the Count himself. Live foal guaranteed, of course."

John rummaged around in the box of pastries he'd brought and came out with an icing smeared Danish. "Ten thousand dollars for a date with him? Does it at least come with dinner?"

"If you'd sired nearly three dozen Grand Champions, your fees would be a bit steep too, Mr. Reese. Count himself is worth six figures and between show earnings and stud fees, he's grossed in excess of two million dollars."

"Sounds like Count's living the dream."

Eyebrows raised over his glasses, Harold looked at his partner in mild shock.

John merely smirked around a bite of Danish and shrugged. "Any indications why The Machine chose Mrs. Barton for me to follow?"

"I haven't found anything suspicious thus far, however, I've only had time to explore the most obvious venues." Harold's fingers worked over the keyboard. "She has no criminal record; the only contact she's had with the authorities is to report nuisance animals or the occasional escaped horse. Her cyber footprint is almost exclusively related to her business, including some of the more popular social media sites. Even her finances are rock solid, with funds coming in and out at an expected rate."

"What about signs of money laundering?" John asked, peering over his boss's shoulder at the screen.

"No – nothing explicit, anyway. From what I've seen so far, her record keeping is scrupulous. She has detailed documentation for every transaction she's made spanning across several decades."

"Records can be falsified."

"Very true; however, to do so at this magnitude would be a full time job in and of itself. There's no mention of an accountant, so I assume she does her own bookkeeping. If she's wrapped up in something illicit, she's hidden it well. In fact, the _only_ item of interest I could find was a sealed court case dating back to 2003. I've sent the details over to Detective Carter with the hope that she can access it. In the meantime, I need you to head up to Stepping Pace Acres and establish contact with our Number."

"I don't know much about the horse industry, Finch."

"You don't have to. In addition to the breeding and training programs, the farm offers guided trail rides of the estate and neighboring properties. I've arranged such a ride for you as a cover. Was I correct in assuming you've ridden before, Mr. Reese?"

"Once." John's memory flashed back to a mission he'd been part of during the early 90's. His unit had been in Mexico, helping to search for several Boarder Patrol guards who'd gone missing while pursuing a smuggler. They'd split up into groups of three to better cover the territory they'd been assigned, and spent the better part of two days scouring the desert with no luck. On the third day, his group caught a creditable tip, but they were thirty miles out from the location. An old tobacco farmer offered them the use of his horses, instructing them to simply turn the animals loose when they were done. The horses would or would not return on their own – he didn't seem to care either way.

His mount, a cantankerous brown mare with a badly swayed back, possessed a short, choppy stride that he could find no comfortable way to ride. His desert fatigues had offered little protection against the hard leather saddle as he bounced and chafed across the desert. Nearly eight hours later, they came across the missing guards, but not before he had discovered a new meaning of the term 'ball breaker.'

"It was a rather…uncomfortable experience."

"I see." Acutely perceptive, Harold seemed to know what John was alluding to without being told the details. "I certainly hope this endeavor doesn't turn out to be as unpleasant as your last one. However, in case it does, I do still have the cushion I purchased for you when Agent Snow made an attempt on your life. If you would like me to get it out of storage, you're welcome to it, Mr. Reese."

Perceptive himself, John didn't need Harold to laugh aloud or smile to know the other man was enjoying himself at his expense. "I think I can manage."

"Very well. Now Mrs. Barton suggested wearing comfortable clothes for the ride, and by comfortable, she means jeans and sturdy footwear such as hiking boots. Do you own such items?"

"Of course."

"Good. Keep a close eye on the people around you – especially the farm help. With no clues as to who may be targeting our Number, the threat could come from anywhere. I'll keep digging here and update you with anything I find along the way. Your ride is scheduled for eleven thirty. You should have plenty of time to get there and have a look around."

"I'd best be leaving then."

Harold began pecking at the keyboard and then paused. "Above all, Mr. Reese, be careful. You'll be out of your element in the country and dealing with potentially dangerous animals."

"Careful is my middle name."

"Really? And here I thought it was mine."

"No – yours is paranoid, Finch." Flashing his employer a lopsided smirk, John gave Bear a departing clap on the haunches and headed out to prepare for his mission.


	2. Chapter 2

John watched as the miles ticked by with mild indifference. Dense city gave way to suburbia, which thinned into outskirts, and finally to small, rural towns. He was never much of a country boy, preferring the constant buzz of the city to the quiet of open land. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate a little peace now and then. He was just more comfortable in a place where he could disappear amid the masses if the need arose.

Even with the radio on, the car was becoming uncomfortably quiet. John felt the tendrils of isolation trying to creep in, and slammed a mental door on them as quickly as he could. As far as he was concerned, there would never be a good time to sort through the wreckage of his conscience, but it was during idle moments like this that his mind tried to go in that direction. Thanks to his unforeseen stay at Riker's Island and the memories dredged up by Carter's interrogation, the instances of forced self reflection seemed to be coming more frequently than he liked.

 _There's no sense in scrutinizing the past…_ he thought, glancing out the window as he passed a herd of cattle grazing lazily by the road. He knew all people had regrets, but due to the choices he'd made during his time with the CIA, he felt he carried more than most. _The past is done and the future is uncertain. All you can do is live for the moment and wait for life's only certainty: death._

John frowned. His mental pep talk had seemed almost poetic until that last part. Mortality was something he confronted regularly in his line of work, but it was his own mind he often found to be more dangerous than the adversaries he encountered. Harold had saved him from himself once; he doubted there was a path to salvation that would allow him to be saved twice.

He passed a sign marking the turn for Steeping Pace Acres and abruptly came back to the present. He could ponder his life's choices and redemption on his own time; right now he had a job to do.

Slowing his car, John signaled and turned onto a gravelly road that led into the woods. Switching off the radio, he reached up and toggled the earwig that connected him to Harold. His head instantly filled with a high-pitched, vibrating hum. "Bad time, Finch?" he asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise.

At once, the sound began to fade, winding down like a turbine before stopping completely. _"Not at all, Mr. Reese,"_ Harold's voice assured him through the earwig. _"I'm in the midst of cleaning up the mess Bear has made pulling the felt from his tennis balls. He's already gone through the four he had, plus the one he managed to find when we went out for a walk. The thing was disgusting, but he absolutely refused to drop it."_

John smirked. The sound he'd heard had been the ancient vacuum cleaner Harold kept at the library. "It's just a phase he's going through. It'll pass."

" _I certainly hope so. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to remove nylon fibers from the exhaust fans of my computers? Not to mention I'll be picking green fuzz off my trousers for the next week…"_ Harold sighed. _"But, you didn't call to hear me complain. Did you need something, Mr. Reese?"_

"I'm almost at the farm. Do you have anymore infor…" John's question tapered off as his car crested a steep hill and the valley below came into view. Sliding the vehicle into park, he opened his door and stepped out, his preconceived notions of the farm completely shattered.

Perfect as a postcard, Stepping Pace Acres sprawled across an expansive property – a hidden oasis mere hours from the concrete jungle that was Manhattan. Assorted buildings spotted the estate, all sharply painted white with black roofs. Six-rail fences ran further than his eyes could see, bordering and dividing the land in to smaller segments. Horses of all colors dotted the green fields, their snorts and occasional whinny being carried to him by the light breeze.

" _Mr. Reese? John? Are you all right?"_ Harold's voice held some concern as he tried to reach his suddenly silent partner.

"I'm fine. I just saw the place. I came expecting to see a Hampton, not the Ritz."

" _Mrs. Barton spares no expense for her client's horses."_

"Clearly." Still in a mild state of awe, John climbed back into his car and proceeded toward the main gate. "Did you find out anything new about the target?"

"Nothing hardly worth mentioning. I'm still waiting to hear back from Detective Carter about the sealed court case."

"Every little bit helps, Finch." He heard Harold moving about on the other end of the connection and than the tapping of computer keys.

"Well, I found out she's married; her maiden name is Walsh. She's the middle child of David and Kaitlyn Walsh, who are both deceased. Her mother died unexpectedly in late 2000 when she was struck while riding her horse along the road. It was deemed a hit and run, and the driver responsible was never found. Her father passed away in 2003 from complications of liver failure."

"That's the same year as the case you have Carter researching," John replied, pulling into to small parking lot and backing into the first available space. "What about her husband?"

"Jeremy Barton. He's a Major in the United States Air Force and is currently deployed as a pilot over in Afghanistan. It's his second tour of duty in four years. The two appear to have an amiable relationship and have been together for nearly a decade. They have no children, but as career motivated as these two seem, it's not surprising."

John stepped out of the car and adjusted the gun he had tucked against the small of his back. He still felt out of place in faded jeans and a polo shirt, but his preferred suits weren't made for the barnyard. "And her siblings?"

"They're both thriving entrepreneurs, each establishing their own business shortly after their father passed away. Alexis, the younger sister, has an accounting firm out of Schodack, and Mark, the older brother, has a construction company nearby. Except for a handful of renovations done by her brother, it would appear they have nothing invested in the farm."

"Sounds like the only thing threatening this family is their success," John muttered as he slipped into his motorcycle jacket.

"And we've seen what that can do to people," Harold replied. "Mrs. Barton appears to be a likely victim in this case, but we don't know for certain. Hopefully she'll be more forthcoming with you than my research has been thus far."

"I'll see what I can find. Keep me updated."

"I will. And just remember what I said about being careful."

The former agent struggled not to roll his eyes. "Yes, Finch."

"Happy trails, Mr. Reese."

The connection was severed before he could reply. At least one of them was enjoying themselves.

John glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. He had hoped to have a look around and get a feel for the location before meeting with the target, but there wasn't enough time. Following the sound of voices and hoof beats, he headed through the main gate and into the mysterious world of horses.

* * *

John didn't have to wander the grounds long before finding a pocket of activity. There was a lesson underway in one of the farm's large arenas, where a small group of riders were navigating their mounts around a well-worn track. They were making the task look effortless; he could barely see any communication going on between the horse and rider. A woman – the instructor, he presumed – was seated on an upturned bucket and watching from the far corner of the ring. After taking a closer look, he realized it was his target – Maggie Barton.

"Take Dwizzle back on the circle at a trot. If he gets heavy on his forehand again, sit down in the saddle and drive him forward with your legs. You want to engage his hindquarters and then support him with your inside leg and outside rein."

To John, the instructor's directions were a foreign language. Leaning against the fence, he watched as a lanky brown horse left the track and began making a large circle in the center of the ring. Its stride began choppy and short, but it gradually smoothed out and lengthened until the animal appeared to be floating across the ground.

Maggie clapped her hands. "Excellent! Now that you knows what it feels like, ask for him to carry himself that way more often."

The lesson continued on for several minutes before John was finally spotted. Maggie waved and excused herself from the group. "You must be Mr. Cross," she greeted as she walked across the arena.

John Cross, the alias Harold had given him to use for the mission, worked as a private security consultant specializing in high-risk venues. He was a workaholic, and had a stress level very close to heart attack.

"I am, and it's John, please."

"All right, John. I'm Maggie." Petite in stature, she slid effortlessly through the lower rails of the fence. "Welcome to Stepping Pace Acres."

"You've got a great set up here. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this."

Maggie grinned. "It's been in my family for generations. Except for a few expansion projects and basic cosmetic work, the property really hasn't chanced much in all that time."

"It's incredible."

"I'll show you around when we get back from our ride. I'd do it now, but our horses are waiting for us. Would you like to meet your trail partner for the day?"

John gestured for Maggie to lead the way and fell into step behind her. As they walked, he continued to look around, soaking in as much of the layout as he could. Small buildings filled with hay and tools; corrals with horses dozing lazily in the sun; a large shed with a green and yellow tractor inside. All typical things you'd expect to find on a working farm, and all good places to hide trouble.

Time to start asking questions… "You said this place has been in your family for a while?" he asked, stepping around a small group of clucking chickens.

"For over a century," Maggie replied. "My great grandfather built the main barn back in 1889. He primarily bred and trained Morgans in those days. It was my grandfather that brought the first Tennessee Walking Horse up from the South in the 1950's. My father fell in love with them as a boy, and devoted his life to furthering and preserving the breed in the region. We train all breeds and disciplines here now, but the Walking Horse is still my favorite."

"So you learned the trade from him?"

She shrugged. "Both my parents were horse people, but he was probably the most influential. My mother was more into the showy side of Walking Horses. She and my brother and sister would take off for a different venue every weekend. They liked the attention, ribbons, and money that came with winning. My father was more of a purist. He enjoyed horses for their free spirit and would take to the trails for hours at a time. He'd train the show horses too, but he refused to use inhumane methods like weighted platform shoes and soring."

"Soring?"

"It's the practice of putting a caustic substance on a horse's heels. To escape the pain, they lift their feet rapidly, forcing an exaggerated gait. My father caught my sister doing it to one of her horses once and grounded her for months."

John was appalled. "That's terrible."

"Thankfully it's been outlawed in most places, but the shoes, tail setting, and bits that cause pain are still allowed. It's awful what some people will do to these animals to try and one-up the competition."

They came to a stop in front of an ornate cast iron gate. "Do your siblings still ride?"

"No. They started to lose interest after our mother's accident. I think they just stuck around the last couple of years because dad was sick. When he finally passed, they both went their separate ways. I don't see them very often anymore. After they found out that dad left me the farm, things really got…" Maggie's voice trailed off and she offered him a sheepish smile. "Listen to me. I shouldn't be bothering you with all this stuff."

Her sudden reluctance to talk sent up a red flag in John's mind. "I don't mind listening."

"That's kind of you, but I shouldn't carry on about such matters in front of paying guests. Your boss arranged this ride for you to have some fun and relax. He said you don't get out of the city much."

"Private sector security is in big demand right now," he replied, allowing her to direct the conversation onto him and his cover story for the time being. "Especially in a big city like Manhattan. Eighty hour work weeks aren't uncommon."

"That just means you're dedicated. If more people were like that, the world would probably be a better place." Maggie cycled the latch on the gate and pushed it open. "But for the duration of the ride, you don't have to think about private security and I don't have to think about family politics. How's that sound?"

John offered her a small smile, all too aware of the potential irony in her words. _If she only knew…_ "It sounds great."

"Good. Let me introduce you to a couple of my friends."

She led him through the gate and into a small courtyard slotted between three outbuildings. Hitching posts stood every few feet and a waist high platform with stairs was tucked in one corner. Two horses were tied and patiently waiting by the far wall, their black coats gleaming almost as brightly as the silver accents on their tack.

"Is this Count?" John asked as they approached the larger of the two animals first.

"It is," Maggie replied with a smile. "Did you see him online?"

"Yes. He's more impressive in person, though." John offered the back of his hand for the horse to sniff before petting him on the neck. "Hey, big guy. You're quite the celebrity around here, aren't you?"

"He's my boy. I was there the day he was born and we've been together ever since. We showed extensively for about five years. He was such a natural; he never needed any of the artificial modifications I mentioned previously – not that I would have used them anyway. During warm up, he'd be almost lazy, but once he knew he was being watched, his head would come up and he'd strut his way around the ring. Never in my life have I seen a horse show off as much as he did."

John didn't consider himself a horse person – especially after his fated ride through the desert – but listening to Maggie talk and hearing the passion in her voice, he could understand how people fell in love with the large creatures. "It sounds like you both enjoyed showing. Why did you stop?"

"It's complicated," Maggie said with a shrug. "A big part of it has to do with winning nearly everything we entered. He'd made International Grand Champion by the time he was seven years old, and once you reach that level, there's no place to go but down.

"Plus my father needed help to keep things going when he became sick, and then when he passed away and I got the farm – there was just no time for the extraneous stuff like showing. I officially retired him from the show ring on his ninth birthday, and have been using him as a stud and trail horse ever since."

John was still stroking Count's neck when he felt a push from behind. He turned and came face to face with a long black muzzle and two very blue eyes. Startled, he took a step back and nearly collided with Count.

Maggie chuckled. "And this is "The Countess of Nevermore," or Raven for short. As you've discovered, she doesn't like to be ignored."

"She's beautiful."

"She's got her father's good looks," she said, nodding toward Count. "She was bred for a client, but they didn't like her blue eyes. I bought her back with the intention of training and reselling her, but she turned out to be such a good trail horse, I wound up keeping her instead. I think you'll enjoy riding her."

John rubbed the mare's soft nose, smiling when she licked his hand. Her blue eyes may have been an oddity, but they were gentle and intelligent.

"Are you ready to get mounted up?"

"Sure."

Untying Raven from the post, Maggie led her over to the platform in the corner. "It's easier to get on using the block. Climb up and I'll make sure she stands still for you."

Feeling a rare stab of anxiety, John ascended the few stairs to the platform and swung carefully into the saddle. Seated atop the large animal, he found it was possible to feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time.

"You look good up there. You're the perfect height for her." She made a few adjustments to his stirrups and tightened this cinch before passing him Raven's soft rope reins. "I don't like to use bitted bridles on the trail, and these guys respond just as well to rope halters. To steer, move your hand in the direction you want to go. To speed up, give her a gentle squeeze with your legs. To slow down or stop, sit deep in the saddle and say 'whoa.' Any questions?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"If you do, just ask. You shouldn't have to do too much – Raven will take care of you. She's the horse I usually put my husband on, and the only thing he knows about horses is where to put the carrots."

Gripping the reins in his left hand and the saddle horn with his right, John waited while Maggie retrieved Count. Beneath him, Raven heaved a sigh and shifted her weight into a more comfortable position. Her calm demeanor helped ease some of his reservations about riding, but he was a long way from feeling confident.

"Shall we go?" Maggie asked, bringing Count up beside him.

"Please."

"Great. Follow us."

He didn't have to anything to get Raven to follow her father. As soon as the large stallion moved for the gate, she fell into step behind him. The mare's stride was naturally long and smooth; with no trace of the roughness he'd been dreading, John found it effortless to ride.

 _Maybe…_ he mused through a fleeting glimmer of optimism. _Just maybe this won't turn out to be such a bad thing after all…_


	3. Chapter 3

They'd been riding for well over an hour before John realized he was relaxed. At some point, his hand had lost its death grip on the saddle horn and slid down to rest against his thigh. He had also stopped trying to micromanage where Raven stepped, deciding she was better equipped to know where to put her feet. It was this new found trust in the mare that allowed him to concentrate on the mission, and not the fact he was riding a 900 pound animal in unfamiliar territory.

With no news from Harold, he was left to draw conclusions based on what little he knew. He was fairly confident Maggie was a victim; her farm appeared to be more than legitimate and his instincts didn't alert him to anything suspicious when he'd been walking the grounds. That left him with identifying the perpetrator, their reason for wanting to harm her, and where and when the threat would come.

"And this tree was struck by lightening back in 1998. It's miles from the house, but we still heard it..."

Not much of a conversationalist, John was content to let Maggie do most of the talking. As they rode, she pointed out little things along the way or offered personal anecdotes, many of them involving memories of her late father.

"It scared our dog so bad, my father had to hold him for over an hour before the poor thing stopped shaking…"

 _He had three children…_ John thought. _Why did he leave his multimillion-dollar estate to only one of them?_

"I wish I'd had a camera to get a picture of dad with a 125-pound Great Dane in his lap. It was priceless!"

Maybe their own success precluded them – no, Maggie said they didn't go their separate ways until after he'd passed away. A family fight would have done it, or a difference in opinion on the fate of the farm when he was gone.

John frowned. There was no getting around it; he needed more information in order to keep Maggie safe.

The trail they had been on was narrow, making it necessary for them to ride single file. Now, as the path widened again, Maggie was able to slow Count down and fall into step beside the former agent.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"Fine. She's incredibly smooth."

"Walkers are bred for their unique, smooth way of going, which is in contrast to the common horse's trot. You seem to be getting along at the walk, would you like to try a little more speed?"

He hesitated. It wasn't the speed that concerned him – he enjoyed going fast, especially behind the wheel of a luxury car – it was the motion of the horse. Based on his limited experience, a faster horse meant more bounce, and more bounce meant…

Maggie seemed to read his thoughts. "It's just as smooth as the walk, I swear. We'll go a short ways, and if you don't like it, we can stop."

If the mission was to be successful, John knew he needed Maggie to trust him. To earn it, he'd have to show her trust first. Besides, even if things did get a little rough, what did he have to lose? A few layers of skin and part of his dignity when he limped back to the Library?

At least the skin will heal quickly…

"What do I do?"

"Just close your legs around her for a few seconds. She should pick a gait right up."

Putting a precautionary hand on the saddle horn, he closed his lower legs around Raven's sides and gave a light squeeze. John barely noticed as the mare changed gears; one instant they were walking along and gliding the next. He quickly grew accustomed to the new way of going, likening the motion to the gentle rocking of a boat on calm waters. Feeling secure, he let go of the saddle horn and sat back to enjoy the ride.

Maggie looked over her shoulder to see his doubtful expression change from confusion to delight. It was when his ghost of a smirk widened into a genuine smile that she knew he was having fun.

"You all right?" she asked, as the horses picked up a little more speed.

"This is great – I could do it all day."

She grinned. "That's the whole idea."

They tooled along for what John surmised to be about a mile before Maggie brought Count back to a walk. The forest around them had changed, turning from mostly pines and scrub, to some of the biggest trees John had ever seen. With mossy trunks nearly ten feet in diameter, he could scarcely make out the blue sky through the densely foliated canopy.

"Old growth forest," Maggie said when she saw him gazing up at the trees. "These ones were here even before my great grandfather built the farm. Every few years we had people offering to buy them for lumber. They're worth quite a bit of money, but my father would never sell – and neither will I. They're more valuable to me as a living tree than as a piece of furniture in someone's cottage."

"All of this land belonged to your father?"

"We'll be crossing onto conservation land in a couple of miles, but everything we've been on so far is part of the 800 acres of the estate. We also have partial ownership of the quarry we'll be riding by later on. It can get pretty rocky up in there, but the horses handle it just fine."

"And he left it to you alone?"

"I was serious when I said I didn't want to think about family politics," she replied, her voice taking on a dangerously cold tone.

"And I was serious when I said I would listen." John knew he was taking a risk by pushing back so hard, but he'd learned the hard way that delays in his line of work often resulted in casualties. If she ran from him now, protecting her would become near impossible when the time came.

"My life is none of your business, just as yours is none of mine. You're a paying client. A customer, not a therapist."

"Technically my boss is the paying customer – I'm just along for the ride." He gave Raven a small squeeze with his legs, encouraging her to keep up with Count. "Besides, I don't trust therapists."

Maggie snorted. "Then why do you sound like one?"

"Do I?"

"You're starting to. Next you'll be telling me it's good to hug myself and talk about my emotions."

"If something's bothering you…"

"Nothing's bothering me!" she insisted, pulling Count to a stop. "I just don't see any good reason to give my family history to a complete stranger."

"I'm a captive audience for one. And some would say a really nice guy," he said, earning the barest of smiles for his last remark. He could tell she was suspicious, but most Numbers were. They were either in trouble or about to cause it, so a healthy dose of paranoia was to be expected.

He could sense her sizing him up. Who was he? What did he want? Was he genuine in his offer or just leading her on? Her hesitation alone spoke volumes, and John knew he'd chosen the right moment to broach the topic. Something _was_ on her mind, and had been ever since her near slip back at the stables.

"You're asking me to involve you in something that's plagued my family for years. Why?"

"You said this ride was supposed to be fun and relaxing," John said. "How is that possible when your body is here, but your mind and heart are elsewhere?"

"It's complicated," she said without conviction.

"So tell me."

Maggie sighed. The only person who'd ever been this persistent was her husband, and with him half a world away at war, she'd been left to deal with her growing insecurities alone. Then along comes a stranger with enough perception to pick up on her uneasiness and the offering of a sympathetic ear. It was definitely either a sign to talk or a test to keep quiet – but which one?

"Let the reins down all the way so she can graze," she said at last.

With the pressure off their halters, both Count and Raven dropped their noses to the ground and began tearing up large mouthfuls of grass. Listening to their rhythmic chewing, John waited patiently for Maggie to collect her thoughts.

"There was always a level of tension between my siblings and our parents – especially our dad. Mom was the peacemaker in the family, but she definitely had dad's back in most things. The arguments were usually centered around money. We always had more than enough growing up; between the estate and the profits from the farm, realistically we could have had anything and everything we wanted. Our parents never spoiled us though. If we wanted something, we had to work for it. I think my brother and sister came to resent them for that.

"I really can't remember when they started harassing dad about the farm. Probably after one of their many trips down to Kentucky for a show. At every opportunity, they'd be after dad about converting the farm into a show venue - a big central arena, renowned trainers, clinics, and top breeding stallions. They went so far as to draw up a business plan to show him how much money he was losing by _not_ transforming the farm.

"Of course dad would have none of it. Show barns are spectacular for humans, but hell for the horses. They live in small, stuffy stalls, with no access to the outside. They're often locked up for over twenty hours a day and only taken out for training. They have no pasture, no daylight, practically no stimulation at all. Their tails are set, their feet are weighted, and they're subjected to grueling workouts by trainers with heavy hands. It's no wonder so many of them breakdown when they reach the show ring.

"Things got pretty ugly for awhile. The confrontations became so frequent, I practically lived at the barn. Mom kept trying to smooth things over – I think she felt partially responsible since she was the one who introduced them to showing in the first place. Then she had her accident…"

"What happened?" John already knew the details from the files Harold had found, but he didn't want her to know that.

"It was late Fall in 2000. She'd taken one of her horses – Red Barron – out for a ride along the road. She'd barely been gone an hour when the sheriff came to see dad. He said someone had struck them at a high rate of speed. Barron was still alive, but three of his legs were shattered and he had to be put down. Mom – she died at the scene before the police even arrived."

"That's terrible," he uttered, sickened by the thought. Even with his background and notable body count, he still had no tolerance for the loss of innocent lives. "Did they ever catch who was responsible?"

"There were no witnesses to the accident and the driver was never found. Even if the person came clean today, they'd never be charged – the statute of limitations ran out years ago." Maggie shook her head. "And if things weren't bad enough already, mom's death made things worse between my siblings and our father. Dad was a calm man around the horses, but once Alexis and Mark started in on him, he'd erupt. They just kept needling and pushing him to convert the farm. It was only when he got sick that they backed off."

"What was wrong with him?"

"His liver and kidneys started to shut down about a year after mom died. His doctor was never able to figure out exactly why, but my brother and sister went around telling everyone it was due to alcohol. They claimed he started drinking in excess to cope with his loss."

John absently swatted a fly from Raven's neck. "But he didn't?"

"No. Dad's idea of a drink was the shot of watered down whiskey before bed. He'd been doing it for years. Alexis and Mark left home, but I never did. I was with dad nearly twenty-four, seven. So unless he drank heavily overnight and found some miraculous way to cure a hangover before breakfast, he was far from being the lush they said he'd become. I don't know what caused him to get sick, but it wasn't alcohol.

"Dad lost the fight to liver failure in early 2003. His funeral was huge – I never realized how many friends he had in the horse community until I saw everyone there. All things considered, the day couldn't have gone any better; at least until we got home. Alexis and Mark had been staying with us off and on when it was clear dad wasn't going to be around much longer. They were different during those times – they were actually caring and helpful towards dad. For the first time in years, we were almost like a family again. Why I allowed myself to believe things had changed – I don't know if I was just that hopeful or in denial.

"When we got home after the funeral, they immediately went to their rooms and came back with armloads of files and paperwork. Dad hadn't been in the ground three hours, and they were already planning the changes they were going to make to the farm. There were construction plans, client lists, real estate contacts, legal information – it was clear they'd been planning for this moment for a very long time. The compassion, the love, the civility of the past few months – was gone."

Things were starting to fall in place for John. The danger facing Maggie, it seemed, was coming from within her own family. "They didn't know your father had left you the farm?"

"My father's lawyer was on vacation. We didn't sit down for the will reading until a week after dad had died. Since the farm had been passed down from father to son for generations, I think Mark just assumed he was next in line. According to the will, I was to receive the rights to all aspects of the farm, including the land, the business, assets, current and future clientele, and spending account. Dad left them both a modest amount of money, but it wasn't what they were expecting – or what they wanted."

"How did they take it?"

"Surprisingly well. They both just sort of looked at each other, communicating without words as only siblings can. It was my sister's calmness that scared me. Growing up, she'd always been somewhat of a drama queen. If she didn't get her way on something, she made sure everyone knew she was unhappy. After the legal work was finished, we went back to the farm. I expected things to hit the fan, but they didn't. They just congratulated me, picked up their things, and left.

"About a month later, I got a summons to appear in court. Apparently they'd decided to try and sue me for manipulating dad in his last days to change his will and make me the sole beneficiary of the farm. They were also going after his lawyer for allowing the change to happen when dad clearly wasn't of sound mind."

"They obviously lost the case," John said.

"The judge dismissed both charges as frivolous. Dad had changed the will shortly after mom died and long before he knew he was sick. There was no proof that I had manipulated him or that his lawyer was negligent. Both Alexis and Mark pretty much disowned me after that. Mark's been more amiable – he's done a few small construction jobs for me over the years. I've paid him, of course. I didn't need a debt hanging over my head that he could use against me later on." Maggie sighed. "I suppose their absence is best. We were never really that close. I mean we had the same parents and lived in the same house, but otherwise we were strangers."

There was no doubt in John's mind that Maggie had led a rough life. The death of her parents and subsequent trouble with her siblings, however, had been years in the making. When The Machine flagged someone for him to follow, the threat was imminent. There was something more she wasn't telling him.

"You've been through some tough times, Maggie, and you came through. That says a lot about your character. You're resilient, that's admirable. Looking at the success of the farm, your past troubles seem to be behind you, yet you're still concerned."

"I'm sure you're familiar with the old adage "bad things happen in threes"? Well, I'm still waiting for that third bad thing to happen, and I think it's going to be soon."

 _Smart girl…_ "And what makes you think that?"

"Alexis showed up unannounced the other day. She wanted to have lunch and take a tour to see what I'd done with the place. It was like a photo shoot from Hell. She spent the entire time taking pictures – especially of Count, Raven, and several of the other high profile horses currently in training. She was acting so cordial it made me sick. Quite a few of the farmhands were fooled, but not me. I'd seen this shift in behavior before, back when dad first got sick. She only gets nice when she wants something. I'm afraid she's going to try and take the farm again, and I can't…I won't… "

Maggie quickly wiped a hand across her eyes and sniffed. She wrapped the reins around the horn and dismounted. "There's a good grove of bushes near by if you need to use the bathroom."

"I'm good."

She nodded absently. "I'll be right back. Keep an eye on Count, but he shouldn't wander off with this much food under his nose."

John waited until she had disappeared completely into the bushes before reaching up and tapping his earwig. "Finch, did you catch any of that?"

* * *

"Thank you, Detective. When you access the text of the will, please contact me. I'm anxious to know what it says. Also, please try to keep your and Detective Fusco's schedules clear. John may be in need of your services before the day is out."

Harold cut the link between him and Detective Carter. She had tracked down the late David Walsh's lawyer and gotten the details of the court case. Finding the actual will within his files, however, would take some time.

" _Finch, did you catch any of that?"_ John's voice came through his earpiece.

"I did, Mr. Reese. Good work getting Mrs. Barton to open up. Detective Carter was able to get in contact with the family lawyer and corroborated the legal portions of what she told you. I'm just waiting to hear back on the actual details of the will."

"It sounds like Maggie's siblings may be up to something. Are their whereabouts known?"

"I've used DMV records to lift their vehicle plates, and tracked them using the NYPD's plate reader program. They're both parked at a small restaurant in the town neighboring the farm."

"Sounds like they're trying to be close by and have an alibi at the same time."

"It's possible," Harold agreed. "Mrs. Barton seemed quite upset by the sudden appearance of her sister. She's a smart woman to know something is up."

"But if her brother and sister are out to lunch, the danger isn't from them directly. There must be someone else involved – maybe someone back at the farm."

"Keep your eyes open, Mr. Reese. You're out in the middle of the woods with no way of knowing who may be out there with you. You should consider yourself to be in enemy territory now."

"Gee, Finch. You sure know how to take the fun out of a situation."

"I just want you to be careful, John. You're in an unfamiliar area and I'm not able to help you as readily as in the past. If you get into trouble, you're essentially on your own." Harold heard his partner grumble something that was inaudible through the phone. "Come again, Mr. Reese?"

"I was just telling Raven how much I appreciate your concern."

A small grin tugged at the billionaire's lips. "On a first name basis with your horse, are you? Speaking of which, how are you holding up?"

"Fine. I'm actually starting to like this horse-riding thing. Might have to get myself one. It would be good company for Bear."

"While a dog following you home is one thing, I'm afraid there isn't enough room in the Library for an equid."

"So buy a farm." John went silent for a moment. "Maggie's returning. Let me know when her siblings start to move."

"Will do. Take care, Mr. Reese." The call terminated and Harold sighed. He trusted John to keep the target safe, but he still worried about the unseen dangers. Chasing criminals in a resource-laden city was one thing; traipsing around the woods on the back of a skittish animal was another. Confident or not, the former agent was out of his element. There was a strong chance the threat would hold the upper hand.

He looked down at Bear. The dog was stretched the full length of his bed, worn out from his morning of destroying tennis balls. "Want to go for a ride in the country?"

Bear's head shot up at the word ride. The Malinois loved the car, and the faster it went, the better.

Just like his owner... he thought. But at least Mr. Reese doesn't hang his head out the window and drool on the dash. Usually…

Harold gathered his laptop and prepared to take his work on the road. Even if he couldn't physically assist his partner, he could at least get closer to the action. If the detectives' services were needed, they could be summoned later. With their badges and flashing blue lights, they could reach the farm in half the time it was going to take him.

He reached down and took the leash from Bear's mouth. Another stupid dog trick in action."Now if Mr. Reese could teach you to clean up after yourself, life would be good..."


	4. Chapter 4

The afternoon was warm and pleasant. John had long ago shed his motorcycle jacket and secured it behind the back of the saddle. Raven swung along at a leisurely pace, her grass-filled belly having taken some of the fire out of her step. Ahead of them, Maggie seemed to be on autopilot as she guided Count along the trails. She hadn't said much since they'd left the grove of old trees, and he hadn't pushed her. He'd gotten the information he needed, and was now waiting to see where she would go from there.

They'd been riding through scenic forest for quite some time when they came to a break in the trees. The horses jigged up a small embankment and stepped out onto a dirt road. "A road?"

"It's an access road. They interlace the entire network of conservation property and act as shortcuts to a lot of the trails. People use them for hiking, but their official purpose is to provide quick access to the area in an emergency. Every year, at least one ill-prepared tourist finds themselves in need of rescue."

Maggie leaned over and began rummaging through her saddlebags. "There are some snacks and bottled water in the right hand bag if you're hungry."

John unlatched the saddlebag and looked inside. "You weren't kidding," he muttered, finding an assortment of food items ranging from jerky and bars to cookies and trail mix. He selected an energy bar and tore it open with his teeth. Hearing the crinkle of the wrapper, Raven stopped abruptly and craned her neck around to see what he had.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Maggie chuckled. "I should have warned you. She gets her sweet tooth from her father."

Breaking off a piece of the bar, he held it out for the mare to lip off his palm. Appeased by the small morsel, she once again fell into step behind Count.

They rode along in silence, listening to the rhythmic crunch of the gravel beneath the horse's feet. John suspected Maggie was angry with him for prying, and he didn't blame her. By the end of the day, she would likely understand his motive, but he knew that being understood didn't always lead to being forgiven.

Hearing the ghost of a sigh from Maggie, John encouraged Raven to quicken her pace and come up along side Count. He wanted to say something – had to say something – to break the tension he presumed was there. He couldn't exactly apologize for his insistence, but he still felt he owed her more than silence. "Maggie…"

"Did you take the interstate to the farm or the back roads?" she asked, catching him off guard.

"What? The interstate. Why?"

"No reason, really. If you'd come the back way, I was going to ask if you'd noticed the small bar just before the rotary. It's been under renovation for a while and I was curious if it was open again. I think after today I'm going to need a couple of shots."

John was both surprised and relieved to find no traces of anger or reproach in her voice. He liked Maggie. She was strong, intelligent, and had a good head on her shoulders – all respectable traits. She also hadn't brought the trouble she was in down on herself, unlike so many of the others The Machine had flagged. "Do you go there often?"

She shrugged. "When Jeremy, my husband, is home, we usually go once a week as sort of a date night. I'm not a big drinker, but it gets me off the farm and out into the "real world" as he calls it. I hardly ever go alone. I learned early on that nothing attracts unwanted male attention like a woman drinking by herself." She paused to consider the idea and frowned. "Maybe I'd be better off just staying in and having something out of dad's old bar. Although the last time I got into it, I had the world's worst hangover the next day."

"Too much whiskey will do that," John agreed, recalling her father's preference from their earlier conversation. Although his binge-drinking days were largely over, he was very familiar with the 'good night, bad morning' phenomenon she was referring to.

"But I only had a shot," she insisted. "It would have been my father's fifty-fifth birthday and Jeremy suggested we have a toast to celebrate. I'd never had the heart to empty dad's bar, so we decided to have something of his. It tasted all right, but it must have been a higher proof than we thought. Even my husband said he could still feel it the next day, and he's a seasoned drinker. Needless to say, we haven't gotten into it since."

"I'm the one responsible for opening old wounds – I'd be willing to buy you a beer," John offered. "And maybe I can help keep the undesirables away."

Maggie smiled. "You're not the reason I need a drink. My family is. Talking to you has made me realize how much I still let Alexis and Mark bother me. I might take you up on that drink offer though."

The sound of rumbling engines prompted John to look over his shoulder. Off in the distance, a cloud of dust billowed up from the middle of the road. "ATVs," he said, once they came into view.

"They're allowed on the roads, but not the trails," Maggie said. "Bring Raven behind Count so they can pass. Hopefully they'll at least be considerate enough to slow down first."

The ATVs slowed considerably as they drew closer and swung out to give the horses as wide of a berth as possible. He watched Raven's right ear rotate, tracking the progress of the first vehicle. The second one slowed even further, its driver casting a calculating gaze up at John as he passed. Not liking the scrutiny, he made a show of grabbing for the saddle horn when Raven stumbled over a rock. His play of insecurity worked; the man on the ATV smirked as he sped up to catch his buddy.

With the machines in front of them, it was now John's turn to do the scrutinizing. Both drivers were male and seemed to be experienced handling the ATVs. A bundle of cargo was strapped behind each seat, the contents covered by a black tarp.

 _They could be hiding anything under there…_ he thought. _Guns, explosives, knives, an RPG, a small nuclear device…_

 _Or it could be their camping gear. Now who's the paranoid one, Mr. Reese?_ John could practically hear Harold's doubtful voice in his head. And he wasn't being paranoid; he was simply sizing up the situationthrough a pragmatic eye. Okay, so maybe the RPG or nuke weren't entirely realistic, but he was working a Number. If experience had taught him anything, it was you could never be too sure.

"Was she all right?" Maggie asked as he rode up beside her.

"Fine. Barely twitched an ear."

"It's nice when people actually slow down. The horses see ATVs almost daily on the farm, but an inconsiderate driver can still cause them to spook. As much as I hate the damage they can do to the land, they make getting around in a hurry a lot easier."

When the roar of the ATVs diminished, she cast an almost mischievous smile in his direction. "The footing is really good through here. Want to pick up the pace again?"

John returned the grin. "I'd love to."

"Great. Catch us if you can!" With a small grunt of effort, Count extended into a faster gait.

No longer afraid of being bounced into oblivion, John nudged Raven with his heels. Although the men on the ATV remained at the front of his mind, he allowed himself a moment to delight in the mare's smooth acceleration. _Just like a sports car…_ he thought, settling back into the mild rocking motion. _This gives a whole new meaning to the term 'horsepower'…_

* * *

Maggie brought Count to a walk at the top of a long hill. He was winded, but far from tired. She knew the stallion could go all day and more if she asked him to. She turned him around and looked back down the slope, smiling at what she saw. At some point, Raven had gone into a canter, and was gliding up the hill with hardly any effort at all.

"Whoa. Whoa!" John uttered as they crested the hill. Half way through the ascent, the side-to-side motion of Raven's gait turned into a gentle, swinging motion. It was super smooth and easy to ride, but faster than anything he'd done thus far.

"How'd you like that?" Maggie asked, his grin telling her he'd enjoyed rather than feared the unexpected speed.

"It was great," he replied, slightly out of breath. "What was it?"

"A canter. It's a three-beat gait horses do – sort of a slower version of a gallop. It's not usually something I have people do on their first ride as it takes some getting used to, but you seemed to handle it just fine. Raven is a good judge of a rider's ability. If you'd been unbalanced, she probably would have stopped."

"Probably?"

"Nothing is ever certain when animals are involved," Maggie said, turning Count back toward the road.

"Glad you didn't say that _before_ I got on…" he muttered.

The two rode on at a slower pace, allowing the horses to cool down and catch their breath. As they rounded a bank of trees, Count stopped and lifted his head, gazing intently at something in the distance.

"It's the ATVs again," John said.

Maggie gave Count a boot with her heels. "You've seen them before – let's go." The stallion snorted his disapproval, but obeyed his rider and walked stiffly on.

John felt a sense of unease as they approached the parked vehicles. He recalled the way one of the men had stared at him, as if sizing him up. Together with Count's wary reaction to the drivers, he decided they both deserved a closer look. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and cued up the camera function. Taking their picture without arousing suspicion was going to be a challenge. Since a distraction worked before, he settled on trying it again.

Putting his full trust in Raven, John released the reins and began to move the phone back and forth while intently studying the screen.

"What are you doing?" Maggie asked of his antics.

"Trying to find a signal," he replied.

"Well, good luck with that. Most providers are spotty out here at best."

A quick check of the phone's signal bar confirmed his connection was as strong as it would have been in the city. He feigned searching until they were nearly on top of the men, and than positioned the phone in a way to best capture the men and the plates on their ATVs. "Found one," he said, and began to poke at the screen with his thumbs as if texting.

"You've got some awfully nice horses there, ma'am," one of the men said as they approached. Both were seated on their machines; one was smoking, the other had an unlabeled brown bottle in his hand.

"Thank you," Maggie replied.

The one with the cigarette squinted out from beneath his cap. "That big one there must be worth a lot of a money."

"He's priceless to me."

"You from that fancy stepping farm some miles from here?"

"It's Steeping Pace Acres, and yes. It's my farm."

"You're farm? Seems like an awful lot for a girl like you to handle on your own."

"That's really none of your concern."

John noticed Maggie's tone had taken on the coldness she'd used with him when he'd first tried to get her to talk. It was clear she was starting to become bothered by these men too. He stopped Raven in front of them and lowered his phone, the camera still facing the men. "Nice machines you've got there," he said, drawing their attention off her and onto him. _That's it boys. Look right at the camera…_

"You ride?" the smoker asked.

"Occasionally." He gave the vehicles an approving nod. "How do they handle?"

"Like a lover," the man with the bottle declared. "More fun when there's mud though."

"I've always preferred a bike for their superior acceleration and maneuverability," John said, noticing one of the supply bundles was open. Sticking out of the back was what appeared to be the stock of a rifle. "But an ATV will do in a pinch."

The smoker shrugged. "Bikes are nice, but they'd never be able to handle terrain like this. Too many hills and sandy pockets."

John gave Raven a bump with his left heel without letting up the pressure on the reins. The mare fidgeted, moved forward several steps, and swung her hindquarters to the right. It wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but it gave him a better view of the cargo just the same.

 _A crossbow…it's a little out of season for that…_ He thumbed the screen on his phone to capture the weapon and than offered the men a wry smirk. "It all depends on how fast you go."

The drinker snorted. "I'd pit my ride against your foolish bike anytime, city boy. One of us would be eating mud, and it wouldn't be me." He took a swig from his bottle, belched, and spit something black onto the ground beside his tire.

Frowning, John recognized the man as the one that had eyeballed him earlier. Both looked casual, but neither would meet his gaze. Whether it had to do with Maggie or not, these two were definitely up to something. He was sure of it.

Satisfied with the photos he had taken, he nodded to the men. "Have a nice day, fellas," he said, turning Raven around and heading towards Count at a brisk walk.

Maggie waited until they were well away from the men's line of sight before daring to speak. "Those guys were creepy."

"A little," John agreed. He had gone back to his phone and was sorting through the photos to find the best ones.

"You're seriously going to check your messages out here?" she asked.

"Might be something from the boss."

"Your boss is the one that arranged this ride for you. He said you work too much and needed some time away." She sighed and shook her head when he didn't seem to be listening. "Why do I even try? You'll likely lose you signal when we get to the quarry anyway, so you might as well get it out of your system now."

John finished attaching the photos he'd selected to an e-mail addressed to Harold and hit send. Less than a minute later, his phone rang. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I've got take this."

"Of course you do." She wasn't angry, but she was starting to wonder if she should instill a "no cell phone" policy on future rides. "We'll be up ahead when you decide to join us again."

Bringing Raven to a stop, John waited until she was out of earshot before answering the call. "Finch?"

* * *

Harold looked out the windshield of his old car with despondent eyes. Traffic on the interstate was backed up as far as he could see in all lanes, and had been grid locked for over an hour. According to the radio, a tanker truck had swerved to avoid a disabled car and flipped over, spilling thousands of gallons of cooking oil on the road. Conditions were slippery and slow going, but motorists were asked to be patient as the DOT worked to clean the mess and get traffic moving again.

 _And at this rate, we'll be here all night…_ Harold thought with a heavy sigh. He looked back at Bear who was gazing out the passenger window into the car beside them. A small dog was barking hysterically, its high-pitched yaps audible even through the glass. The Malinois gave the creature a long-suffering look, and stretched out on the backseat with a loud yawn.

"I know what you mean, Bear," Harold muttered.

Traffic was just starting to move forward when his phone indicated he'd received a text. He advanced his car ahead several feet to hold his position in the lane and opened the message. Several photos of two men and what appeared to be license plates greeted him, along with the message: "Might be trouble ~ R."

He forwarded the files to his computer and put in a call to his partner for more details. When the phone rang for what seemed like an impossibly long time, he couldn't help the pang of anxiety started to form. " _Finch."_

Harold released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Mr. Reese, I got your message. What makes you think these men mean to harm Mrs. Barton?"

" _I didn't like the way one of them looked at me."_

The hacker put a hand to his forehead. He trusted John's judgment, but sometimes he just couldn't figure out how the other man's mind worked. "Mr. Reese, please be serious…"

" _I am, Finch. The way this guy was sizing me up, I thought we were going to get it on right there."_

Harold thought he could detect a hint of disappointment in John's voice.

" _They also showed interested in Maggie's horses and her involvement with the farm."_

That part caught Harold's attention. "What are the other photos you sent me?"

"The license plates from their ATVs. If they own the machines and have a record, maybe we can put a name to their faces."

"And possibly find out if they have any connections with either of Mrs. Barton's siblings. I'll forward the photos to Detective Fusco. With his clearances, he should be able to access the state's registration records faster than I could…" Harold looked away from his laptop in time to see a car cut him off. "Oh, you impudent limpet!"

" _Finch?"_

"Not you, Mr. Reese. This sports car just cut me off. It managed to gain all of five feet. I hope he's happy with himself."

"Where are you?"

"In the middle of one of the worst traffic jams I've seen in years." He looked back at Bear when he heard a low growl. The dog was glaring out the window at the neighboring car where the terrier was still yapping away. "Patience, Bear. Just ignore the little imp."

"Why are you on the road? I thought you were at the Library?"

"I was, but Bear wanted to go for a ride in the country," he replied, regretting the answer as soon as it left his mouth.

" _Did he now?"_ John asked, clearly amused.

"It's not as it sounds." Harold knew trying to recant what he'd said would only make the situation worse. "It's a nice day, so he…we…I decided to get out for some fresh air." _As much fresh air as one can get in the middle of a New York interstate anyway…_

"Confess, Finch. You just want to be closer to the action."

"Closer, yes. To the action, not so much," he admitted. "While I may not be able to assist you in person, I thought I'd get close to the farm in case a distraction was warranted. Assuming I ever get out of this traffic, that is."

"Have the siblings moved at all?"

Harold tapped a few keys on his computer. "No. They're still at the restaurant. Although I imagine their lunch date is nearly over; they've been there for several hours already. If you're right about those men being involved and something's going to happen…"

"Then it'll probably happen soon. Given what Maggie's said, it might not be a good idea for her sister to be at the farm unsupervised. She mentioned a back way to the farm. You might want to look into it."

"I'll do that. And Mr. Reese?"

"Yes, Finch?"

"Keep Mrs. Barton safe, but don't go playing hero. There's no shame in running from danger, especially when you have a four-legged advantage."

"I'll keep that in mind. Be careful and make sure you open a window so Bear can enjoy his ride."

"Always has to have the last word…" Harold muttered as the connection went dead in his ear. Dividing his attention between the crowded road and his computer, he forwarded the photos and a request for expedited help to Lionel. Researching the ATV registrations would take time, but he hoped the detective would take the urgency of the matter seriously.

With the message sent, he moved onto finding the alternative route John had told him about. He was waiting for his server to connect to the map program when he looked over at the car with the still yapping dog. He didn't understand how the driver could tolerate such a shrill noise until he saw she was wearing headphones. _You cope with it your way and I'll cope with it mine…_

Harold dropped his hand to the control panel on the door and lowered the rear passenger window several inches. As if sensing his intentions, Bear sat up and whined.

"All right."

Bear lunged bodily at the window, the entire car rocking as his shoulder slammed against it. Barking and growling, he thrust his nose through the crack in the window and bared his teeth in a snarl. The small dog in the neighboring car yelped and nearly did a back flip in its haste to get away from the window. Still listening to her headphones, the driver was oblivious to the fright her dog had just suffered.

A smirk twitched at the corner of Harold's lips. Normally he didn't mind small dogs, but this one's hysterical barking had gone unchecked for long enough. And, from his explosive reaction, it was clear Bear agreed. _Won't be hearing from you again, you little pest..._

"Vestigen." (Settle)

The Malinois obediently terminated his show of intimidation and withdrew from the window. After turning several tight circles, Bear eased himself down on the seat and sighed. Harold couldn't be certain, but he thought the dog was smiling.

 _And after a performance like that, he has every right to be…_

Outside the traffic shifted, and Harold was able to pull forward a reasonable distance. Up ahead, he spotted an exit ramp and cross-referenced it to the map displayed on his computer. Although it would take him about twenty miles out of his way, the detour would ultimately get him to the farm faster than waiting for the traffic to clear.

"All right, Bear," he said, putting on his blinker to begin the delicate task of changing lanes in stalled traffic. "Let's go see a man about a horse…"


	5. Chapter 5

John caught up with Maggie about a quarter of a mile down the trail. She had turned around backwards in the saddle and was resting her head on her arms, which lay across the stallion's round rump. Count, who seemed completely at ease with his rider's unorthodox position, was engaging in what seemed to be his favorite activity: grazing.

"Everything all right?" she asked as he came into view.

"Nothing that can't wait," he replied, dropping the reins to allow Raven to eat.

"Thanks for distracting those guys for me," she said, catching Count's tail as he swished at a fly. "I can't stand people like that. They're just so…"

"Creepy?"

Maggie smiled. "Yeah." She tugged a bur free from the long tail hairs before releasing it again. "Most of the people I come across out here are nice. They want to pet the horses or give them something to eat. Some of them though – I swear they just look right through me. It seems like I've been seeing a lot more of those lately. Jeremy thinks I should carry a gun just in case, but I don't want to. I mean, what if it went off accidentally? I don't think I could live with myself if I shot someone, even if they did deserve it."

 _You get used to it…_ John thought.

The sound of the ATVs' engines coming to life sounded in the distance.

"I'm getting so sick of these guys!" Maggie muttered. With the flexibility of a gymnast, she righted herself in the saddle and tugged at Count's reins. "Come on, we're going to take a different way."

Without needing to be asked, Raven snatched a final mouthful of grass before hurrying after her father. At first John wasn't sure where Maggie was leading them. There was no obvious trailhead; only a wall of thin trees and tangled scrub. Before he could ask where they were going, Count plunged into the bushes with Raven right on his heels.

John held up an arm to protect his face from the leaves and braches they were plowing through, certain Maggie had made a mistake. The horses pushed on, and there was nothing he could do but hang on and endure the onslaught from the foliage.

"Duck!"

Conditioned to respond rather than question, he dropped down beside Raven's neck just as a heavy limb swung directly overhead. _Holy…_

"Sorry! It slipped. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he replied, plucking a few stray leaves from beneath his collar. "Good call."

"I rarely come down this way, so I don't bother keeping up the trail. Well, it's really not even a trail…"

As Raven exited the bushes, John was able to see what she was talking about. Rather than the wide, well maintained trails they'd been on so far, this one appeared to be almost nonexistent. A winding, narrow rut was the only indication that there was a path present – one that was well traveled by much smaller animals. "Looks like a deer path."

"That's exactly what it is. I usually don't take guests through here because of the bushwhacking it requires, but since you're already cantering, I figured you could handle it. Best of all, those ATVs won't be able to follow us."

They headed down the path in single file, Count boldly leading the way. The motors of the ATVs could still be heard, but the dense trees diluted the sounds.

Allowing Raven to manage herself, John slipped deep in thought. He was debating whether or not to tell Maggie about the weapon he'd seen strapped to the back of the ATV. He hadn't told Harold out of principle. The other man was still hours away and telling him would only serve to worry him further. But Maggie was different. She was here and she was a target. If he was right and the men on the ATV were after her, such knowledge might just save her life.

"So do you offer security for everyone, or are you exclusively private sector?" she asked, breaking his train of thought.

"Private sector is my specialty, but I'm willing to work with anyone," he replied, ducking under a low hanging branch. "Why? Are you considering security for the farm?"

"We have heavy duty locks and dogs that guard the property at night, but I'm starting to think I might need something more. Or I'm just really paranoid."

"I think paranoia is a good thing."

"You do?"

"Sure. It means job security."

She laughed. "Real cute. I don't know – maybe I should look into a few cameras. Even if they never catch a prowler, they'd come in handy during foaling season."

"I can definitely hook you up."

The thrum of the ATVs unexpectedly became louder from behind.

"Those dimwitted sons of bitches," Maggie muttered, spinning Count around so fast even the horse looked surprised.

"Maggie?" John quickly turned Raven to follow. "Maggie, what are you going to do?"

"Give those two idiots a piece of my mind. They know they're not supposed to leave the road; there are signs everywhere. They even have pictures so they don't have to hurt themselves thinking."

"Do you really think that's a good idea? You said they were creepy."

"It doesn't matter. They're breaking the law. If they refuse to leave, I can turn them into the sheriff for trespassing on conservation property."

"Maggie…" There was no way John could let her act on her words. Giving Raven a firm boot with his heels, the mare quickened her pace enough to overtake her father and bring him to a halt. "You can't."

"John, what are you doing?"

"You can't confront those men – they're trouble."

"And they're going to be into up to their eyeballs too if they don't leave."

"Maggie…"

Something whooshed through the air and struck a tree close to Maggie. John instantly recognized the half embedded object as a bolt from a crossbow. It was time to leave. Now.

Grabbing Count by his reins, he wheeled both horses around and started hauling the stallion and his rider back down the trail. "We have to move."

"What was that? Are they shooting at us? What's going on?" Maggie hardly realized she was being led until John reached back and crammed the reins into her hands. "What's happening?"

Another bolt went wide and disappeared into the bushes. He was grateful the men were using crossbows instead of guns. They were slow to reload and difficult to aim, but he knew all they needed was one lucky shot to ruin the day.

"Your dimwitted trespassers are hunting us," John said, having to raise his voice over the growing noise of the ATVs. "More specifically, they're hunting you. Is there someplace the horses can go but the machines can't?"

Maggie shook her head, momentarily lost in panic. Who were those men on the ATVs? Where did they come from? Did they really mean to kill her? How did John know they were after her? Why did he seem so calm? Was he…?

"Are you with them?" she asked suddenly, her shaky voice taking on an accusatory tone. "Is that how you know this?"

John wheeled Raven around, forcing Count to stop. The mare danced on her feet, the excitement in the air making her anxious and jumpy. "I'm here to stop you from getting killed. Now is there a place the horses can go but the ATVs can't?"

"They're not supposed to be on the trails…"

Another bolt flew by, this one coming uncomfortably close to his head. "Look, we don't have a lot of time here."

"Um…" Putting a hand on top of her head, she looked around, trying to find her bearings. "The quarry! The horses can get through the gully, but the machines won't be able to."

"Then go there. As fast as you can."

"But you…it's going to be a rough ride…"

"I'll hang on. I promise. Now go!"

Her face still fraught with apprehension, Maggie took hold of Count's thick mane and gave him a sharp kick. The stallion grunted with effort as he rocked back on his hindquarters and pushed off, his hooves spraying gravel as he went.

John felt the bolt strike his left side. There was pain, but it had little time to register as Raven chose the same moment to take off after her father. The burst of power and acceleration was so intense, it literally took his breath away. In a matter of seconds, he was racing through the woods at well over thirty miles per hour. The wind made his eyes water and blurred his vision. All he could do was stay low beside the mare's neck and cling to her mane for balance. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

 _"Mr. Reese?"_ Harold's voice unexpectedly filled John's ear, startling him.

"Not a good time, Finch," he replied through gritted teeth.

 _"John, is something wrong? What happened?"_

"I'll call you back." John risked letting go of Raven's mane long enough to close the link. He knew Harold meant well in his concern, but he couldn't afford the distraction.

The roar of the ATVs continued to follow them for what seemed like miles. The horses skirted, weaved, and jumped over the obstacles in their path, putting precious distance between them and the men in pursuit. A couple of times, John heard Maggie shout back to him, but he couldn't make out the words. Between the wind rushing past his ears, the sound of Raven's breathing, and the ATV's, he could barely even make out his own racing thoughts.

At last, the thrum of the machines started to fade. Maggie gradually slowed Count from a gallop to a canter and than to a gait. "There's a steep downhill coming!" she called back over her shoulder. "Just sit back and hang on. Let Raven do the work."

His body numb with adrenaline from the run, John sat back and grabbed the saddle horn just as the ground seemed to drop out from beneath them. Calling the downside of the hill steep was an understatement; it was nearly vertical. Raven took the alarming plunge in stride, half walking and half sliding her way toward the forest floor below. Nearing the bottom, the mare sprang off the side of the hill and sprinted across the gravelly ground to catch up with Count.

"Come on! There's better cover over here!" Maggie called, heading toward a heavy crop of trees.

"Whoa. Easy. Whoa," John chanted as they entered the protection of the trees, trying his best to calm the fractious mare down. She was streaming sweat and breathing heavily, but he could sense her willingness to take off again if the opportunity presented itself.

Maggie had stopped Count up ahead; her eyes darting around like a trapped wild animal searching for escape. She wasn't used to this, and he knew from experience things were likely to get worse before they got better.

"Maggie," he said, trying to calm his own racing body down. "I need to know something."

"They won't be able to follow us here. Their machines will flip over if they try to take them down the hill," she was muttering. "They could walk down, but we'd see them coming and we'd have time to get away."

"Maggie…" John grimaced. The adrenaline from their mad dash through the woods was fading and the bolt embedded in his side was starting to demand his attention. "Maggie, are they after you or the horses?"

"What? How…oh my God." Her face went pale when she looked over and saw him holding his side. "You were hit. Oh my God…"

"Maggie, please. I need to know."

"You need help. I need to get you out of here…"

"Maggie!" John raised his voice, startling both her and the horses. He didn't shout often, but time was short. "Answer my question."

"They're after the horses," she said, looking both ashamed and hurt. "But to get what they really want from them, they have to get me first."

"Thank you." John closed his eyes as the pain in his side flared. Depending on the type of head the bolt possessed, he knew the injury had the potential to be quite serious. Presently, however, there was little he could do to help his situation any. He had to focus on protecting Maggie and preparing for the men chasing them to try again. "I need you to help me get down."

"Off Raven? But you'll never be able to get back on."

"I know."

Dismounting and leaving Count, Maggie tentatively came over to his left side. "You're bleeding."

"It's not as bad as it looks."

She shot him a look that clearly said he was full of it, but she didn't push. "Why don't you dismount on Raven's right? It'll put less pressure on your left side."

John nodded and tried to ready himself for what he knew was going to be an unpleasant experience. He allowed Maggie to take his left foot out of the stirrup, the mere weight of his leg hanging straight causing the bolt to shift painfully.

"It's just like getting on, only in the opposite order," Maggie explained, slipping into instructor mode. "Brace yourself on the saddle horn and I'll help you swing your left leg over her rump. Then move your left hand to the back of the saddle and stand in your right stirrup. I'll come around and help you down. All right?"

Nodding again, John took hold of the saddle horn and tried not to shout as she helped him get his left leg over Raven's hind end. By the time he was in position, he was sweating and supporting most of his weight with shaking arms. He felt Maggie's hands on his back as she reached up and prepared to help him to the ground.

"Brace your arms, take your right foot out of the stirrup, and slowly lower yourself to the ground. I'm right here – I won't let you fall."

Pain exploded sickeningly from his side the moment his feet touched the ground. His vision grayed and he leaned heavily into Raven as he fought to keep from passing out. As the lightheadedness began to fade, the need to vomit arose; something he desperately did not want to do with an arrow buried deep in his side. Drawing on his training, he made a conscious effort to deepen his breathing and calm his racing heart. Gradually he was able to suppress the pain to a tolerable level, and ease the symptoms of shock.

"John?"

Maggie's voice was small and far away, although he was certain she hadn't left his side. As he slowly straightened up, he was surprised to find Raven looking around at him with questioning blue eyes. "I'm okay, girl," he said, rubbing her on the forehead.

"I've never seen anyone go that pale before and not pass out," Maggie said, her eyes wide with concern. "Do you want to sit down?"

"I'd better not. I might not be able to get back up again," he admitted, not encouraged by the weakness he already felt. "What did you mean when you said they have to get you before they can get what they want from the horses?"

"Dad ultimately wanted the farm to stay in the family. Although he willed it to me, there was a stipulation that said if I ever became unable to run it, then it's to be equally split between Alexis and Mark. For them to get full breeding rights to most of the stallions – meaning the ability to charge top dollar and provide proof of lineage – I either have to sign their ownership papers over willingly, which I'd never do, or I have to be…" Her words faded along with the color in her face.

"Maggie?" John asked, sensing she was finally starting to grasp the seriousness of her situation.

"Or I have to be out of the picture. Permanently."

"From the look of things, I'd say they're trying for Option Two."

"If I die, Mark and Alexis get the farm free and clear. They sent those men on the ATVs. They're really trying to kill me." It wasn't a question. She shook her head in disbelief. "We had a tremulous childhood and I knew they were angry when dad willed the farm to me, but I never thought…"

"Greed and jealously can cloud judgment and make people do irrational things," John said, wishing there was more he could say to reassure her. "I'm going to get you out of here, Maggie, all right? We're just going to have to do things a little differently than planned. Now, do you trust me?"

"You took an arrow that was meant for me. Yes, I trust you."

"Good. Because we have set the horses free."

Maggie did a double take. "Excuse me?"

"They make a lot of noise and leave too obvious of a trail. Setting them free is our best option for losing those guys chasing you."

"But…no! We can't! These animals are my life. I can't just cut them loose with God knows who else looking for them!"

"Won't they go back to the barn?"

"Of course, but it's going to take them awhile. What if those guys catch up with them first? They could take them to a trailer anywhere along the access roads and I'd never see them again! Do you have any idea what Count alone is worth?"

"I imagine he's priceless to you. But think what will happen if these men eliminate you – what would Count be worth to your sister?"

Tears brimmed in Maggie's eyes. The entire situation had left her scared, angry, and confused. The thought of turning Count and Raven loose to save her life – _all_ of their lives – was pushing her dangerously close to her breaking point.

John could see the indecision written on her face. "What if you didn't have to lose track of them completely?"

"What do you mean?"

John reached for his motorcycle jacket that was tied to the back of saddle. From the collar, he removed what looked like a small, sliver thumbtack. "This is a compact GPS tracker. It'll allow us to monitor their progress from a program I have on my phone."

Maggie looked skeptically at the small device.

"Here." John moved over to Raven's head and attached it to one of the knots on her rope halter. He then pulled out his phone and opened the corresponding program before passing it to her.

On the screen, Maggie saw a frighteningly detailed photo map of the area they were in. A tiny red dot blinked over the grove of trees they were currently occupying. "That's Raven?"

John nodded. "And I can put another one on Count. What do you say?"

Maggie couldn't say anything. She merely nodded and wiped the moisture away from her eyes. She'd said she trusted him, and now she had to prove it.

"Besides the food, what's in the saddlebags?"

"Just some odds and ends like sunscreen and a first aid kit for the horses."

"All right. Start pulling their gear. Hide it well in the bushes. We'll take the bags and leave the rest. I have a phone call I need to make." Supporting his aching left side, John sought out a tree wide enough to lean against. There was no need to hide his conversations with Harold from Maggie anymore; she was smart enough to know he was more than what he'd originally said.

Bracing his back against the trunk of a tall tree, he brought his phone up to his ear. "Finch, are you there?"

* * *

Harold's car was parked under a leaf heavy maple tree at the far end of a playing field. They had escaped the nightmare on the interstate and found themselves deep in the country where there was more livestock around than people. Bear had taken an instant interest in the scent of cattle, and spent over an hour with his head out the window in a constant state of inhale. Worn out, the dog lay sprawled in the grass while the hacker continued his work from a wooden bench.

He'd decided to pull over after his last conversation with John. He had only caught snippets of his terse exchange with the Number, but it had been enough to tell him something had happened. When he'd inquired directly, John had told him it wasn't a good time and cut him off completely. _Never a good sign with Mr. Reese…_

Harold signed into the satellite feed that was tracking Maggie's sibling's vehicles and shot forward in his seat when he saw they were no longer parked at the restaurant. With a few keystrokes, he traced their license plates and placed them several miles outside of the farm. Now he _definitely_ knew something had happened.

He was preparing to head to the farm himself when a distinct cell phone chime sounded in his ear. "Detective Fusco, what did you find out for me?"

" _You know someday, it's going to be what_ you _can do for_ me _, Glasses,"_ the detective ground out. For as bothered as the other man sounded, he had never failed to come through on a request. " _I traced those ATV plate numbers you sent me back through the system. The first one is registered to a Margaret Barton a few hours north of the city. The address sounds like some sort of fancy pantsy farm."_

"Stepping Pace Acres."

 _"Yeah, how'd you know?"_

"Lucky guess," Harold replied quickly. "John's with Mrs. Barton as we speak. What about the other vehicle?"

 _"That one was harder to trace because it was out of state. It's also been expired for over five years. I did a little digging and it came back to a Walter Sullivan out of a small town in Jersey."_

"If it's here in New York and been expired for that long, I seriously doubt it's still in the hands of the original owner," he muttered, more or less to himself.

 _"I thought so too, but I ran the name through our database and the mug shot it spit back matched the photo of one of the guys you sent. He's the charming one with the hat. He's still listed as living in Jersey, but he works off and on for a construction company located near the farm."_

"Mrs. Barton's brother Mark's construction company…"

 _"He's got a rap sheet a mile long dating back from when he was a juvenile. Mostly petty stuff like simple theft and vandalism, but he's got a few assault charges in there too. As for the other guy, without a name or prints, there's not much I can do beyond putting a BOLO in with their local PD."_

"Right…" Harold's mind was still working on the connection between the newly identified Sullivan and the Number's brother. "Detective, is there any way you could…"

The cell tone associated with John broke into their conversation. _"Finch, are you there?"_

He didn't like the strained quality of his partner's voice. "Please hold, Detective."

 _"Hey, you tell Wonder Boy…"_

Harold cut the detective off without a second thought. "I'm here, Mr. Reese. What's going on? Are you and Mrs. Barton all right?"

 _"Maggie's pretty shaken up, but she's fine. Turns out I was right about the men on the ATVs. They chased us through the woods. We got away, but it would appear they have the motivation to come after us again."_

"I would imagine," Harold replied, not missing the fact John hadn't fully answered his question. He began to pack up his things. "I just spoke with Detective Fusco concerning the ATVs. The farm owns one of them, but the other is registered to a career criminal out of Jersey. His name is Walter Sullivan – he's the one wearing the hat in the photos. He apparently works periodically for a construction company close to the farm."

 _"Maggie's brother's company?"_

"It's quite possible. I'll need to do some more digging to know for sure."

 _"And the other guy?"_

"Without a name or prints, he can't be ID'ed. Either way, it's safe to say they're both dangerous. You should also know the siblings just left the restaurant and are heading to the farm as we speak. I'm going there myself to see if I can intercept them."

 _"Where are you now?"_

"I'm at a park a few miles out from the farm – why?" His phone beeped, indicating he'd just received a message.

 _"Plans have changed. I just sent you a set of GPS coordinates for a fire access road about eight miles north of where we are. I need you to meet us there. Send Carter to the farm and bring Lionel with you."_

"Mr. Reese, it'll take them several hours just to make it to town…"

 _"Maggie and I will need that time to make it to the access road."_

Harold nudged Bear awake with his toe. "What about the horses? Won't I need a trailer?"

 _"We're setting the horses free. We'll be on foot."_

"I could be at your location inside of an hour," he said, consulting the map. "I can meet you both…"

 _"Wait for Fusco, Finch. I don't want you in the woods with those two guys running around. They're armed with crossbows and they somewhat know how to use them."_

 _Crossbows?_ Several images came to mind, none of them good. "Mr. Reese, are you all right?"

 _"Just do what I told you, Harold. Please."_

"John…" Harold scowled when the line went dead. He knew for certain John wasn't telling him something. The former agent meant well; he was trying to protect him from the darker side of the work they did. On most occasions, this arrangement was fine. This time, however, he'd heard something in John's voice that caused him to worry even without all the grizzly details. "Come on, Bear."

Completely lost in his thoughts, Harold failed to remember he still had a person on hold until he was sitting behind the wheel and looking to pull out into traffic. "Detective, are you still there?"

 _"Yeah, I'm here. What sort of trouble has Wonder Boy gotten himself into now?"_

"Trouble has found him, Detective, in the form of two men carrying crossbows."

 _"Are these the same guys in the pictures you sent?"_

"Indeed. For the moment, John has Mrs. Barton safe, however I have a feeling something may have gone terribly wrong."

 _"Only a feeling? Your boy's out running around in the woods dodging arrows and you only have feeling something's gone wrong?"_

"He wouldn't give me the details."

 _"Of course he won't. Just what kind of a relationship do you two have anyway?"_

"John's requested both your and Detective Carter's assistance," Harold said, choosing to ignore the man's question. "I'll fill you in on the specifics later, but…"

 _"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! He's requesting? How do you know I'm not in the middle of something big here?"_

The hacker rubbed his forehead. He so wasn't in the mood to play games. "I don't know about you, Detective, but I sleep better at night knowing I saved a life verses merely catching the person that took it. Are you able to assist John and myself in this matter, or do I need to make other arrangements?"

Harold met with silence for so long, he began to think he'd lost his caller. "Detective Fusco, are you still there?"

 _"Yeah, I'm here,"_ the gravelly voice replied. _"What do you need?"_

Harold breathed a small sigh of relief. Although he was slowly proving to be an asset, Lionel, in many ways, was still an unknown. "I knew I could count on you, Detective. Please listen carefully. We have much to do and little time in which to do it."


	6. Chapter 6

Greetings

I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far. I've had several inquiries about my knowledge of horses, so I'll answer the question here. I've been working with them for about 25 years – everything from basic care to showing and training. I have my own – a Tennessee Walker cross mare – named Brandy. She's what I call an "expensive rescue" and prefers the companionship of sheep to other equines. She and her stable buddy, a sweet hand raised sheep named Caviezel, are pretty much inseparable.

* * *

Maggie cursed as she stumbled over an exposed tree root. She was finding it difficult to divide her attention between watching where she was going and the two red blips on her cell phone that represented her horses. After they'd turned them loose, John had sent the GPS tracking program to her phone so she could monitor their progress herself. As she'd hoped, the horses were making their way back toward the barn with slow but steady progress.

 _Please make it home all right…_ The image of the two horses galloping off with their tails flagging in the air was burnt into her memory. They'd been confused at first when she told them to go; neither of them had ever been set free except for in the safety of the pasture. After a little verbal persuasion and some chasing with a rope, Raven and Count finally got the idea and took off. The fading sounds of their excited snorts and hoof beats still played in her mind.

Mindful of her phone's battery, she turned it off and tucked it away. There was no sense in watching their every move. Even if the men on the ATVs caught up with the horses, she would be helpless to do anything to stop them. When she'd learned of John's plan to go off trail and work their way cross country to one of the access roads, she had no idea getting through the quarry would be so difficult. Heavy brush, fallen trees, and piles of unstable rock lay in their path, making the going slow and precarious.

Maggie adjusted the saddlebags she had slung over her shoulder and glanced back at John. She had purposely kept her pace slow for his sake, but she was still surprised by how well he was keeping up. His face was set in unreadable mask, but his lack of color and locked jaw told her he was in pain. His right hand was pressed just below where the bolt entered his side; blood slowly seeping out from between the fingers. It was a hard sight to see, especially knowing the arrow had been meant for her.

 _What kind of person risks their life for a complete stranger? Is he a cop? How did he know those men would be on the trail today? Why did he come on the ride if he knew there would be trouble? Why didn't he just tell me someone was after me?_

The sound of shifting gravel followed by a grunt pulled her from her thoughts. She looked back to find John down on one knee, his eyes closed and a pained expression on his face.

Dumping the saddlebags, she hurried to his side. "John?"

"Found a low spot," he uttered through clenched teeth. "Might want to see about getting it fixed."

"I'll be sure to bring it up at the next land management meeting," she said, glad his sense of humor was still intact. "Are you okay?"

John nodded but made no attempt to stand. He was back to doing damage control – his unexpected stumble over a rock having reawakened the raging fire in his side. Even on a good day it would have been hard to navigate the unpredictable terrain, maintain a specific heading, and keep alert for their homicidal pursuers. _And today is definitely not a good day…_

"You're really starting to bleed again," Maggie said as she reached into her pocket. She withdrew a folded blue handkerchief and helped to slide it under his hand and around the protruding end of the bolt. "It might have a little horse sweat on it, but that's never hurt anyone." She looked at the blood – his blood – on her hands. "You're not the promiscuous type, are you? I'm not going to have to explain anything to my husband when he gets home…?"

Despite the sad reality of the question, John couldn't hide his smirk. "You're safe."

"Good."

With the pain back to a bearable level, John levered himself to his feet. "How are the horses doing?"

"They're making progress," she replied, collecting the saddlebags and settling them over her shoulders again. "Horses typically have an excellent sense of direction, especially when it comes to knowing where home is. They probably won't make it back before dark though. They don't travel in a straight line and with Count in the lead, they'll be sampling everything green along the way. Both father and daughter subscribe to the "there's always room for one more bite" philosophy."

John immediately thought of Bear. "Sounds familiar."

Resuming their trek, Maggie chose to remain at John's side in case he needed a hand. Another stumble or fall, and she feared the bolt would shift and slice into something vital – assuming it hadn't already.

"I'm curious," she began after they'd been walking for a while. "Why didn't you tell your boss you'd been shot?"

"He's a worrier," John said after a moment. "I need his attention elsewhere right now, not on me. Besides, there's nothing he can do."

"He can get you to a hospital."

"Not until the job's done and you're safe."

"What job?" she asked at last. "How did you even know I was in danger? You said you worked in private security, but what I've seen today goes way, _way_ beyond that. What is it that you really do?"

"It's complicated, Maggie. It's classified."

"Are you with the government?"

The former agent nearly snorted at this. "No, but we do work among them."

"Vigilante?"

"In a way." John hesitated, unsure how much to tell. "We help people in imminent need."

"But how do you know who needs help?"

"That's the complicated part."

"And you just willingly risk your life for people you don't even know?"

"I do what's necessary to keep good people from being hurt. Getting winged on occasion is part of the job."

"Is that what you call this? 'Getting winged'?" Maggie shook her head in disbelief. "If you say so."

The silence returned and John was grateful. He didn't mind answering questions, but Maggie's were pointed enough to make forming a vague response difficult. She wasn't prying on purpose, she was simply being curious. He'd given her as much information as he could without compromising himself, Harold, or The Machine.

"So how many people have you saved?"

"Maggie…" John stopped and grimaced. All of the quick thinking and talking had taken some of his concentration away from pain control. "I'm not trying to avoid your questions, but talking is…"

"Wearing you out?"

"A little."

"I'm sorry. I should have known that. I'm just nervous and when I get nervous, I like to talk."

"So talk," John replied. "I'll listen."

"What do I say?"

"Tell me a story about the horses," he said, suggesting the one topic he knew would occupy her mind.

"There are so many…I wouldn't know where to begin…" Maggie's face lit up as something came to mind. "I know. I'll tell you about the time I brought Count into the house. He was only a few months old at the time and I thought my father was going to…"

* * *

A lazy bee bumbled its way around the honey glazed donut Harold had sitting beside his laptop. He was occupying a picnic table beside a small coffee shop half way between the farm and the coordinates John had sent him several hours earlier. It was where he had instructed Detective Fusco to meet him upon arriving in town. The location was quiet and he had access to a secure network courtesy of the police department that was situated less than a mile away.

"Shoo!" he said, fanning the insect away from his food. Reaching for his cup of tea, he noticed another pair of eyes focusing on his snack. Bear had his chin resting on the table, his wet nose twitching with interest. "The bee stands a better chance of getting my donut than you, Bear, so don't even think about it."

The dog whined in defeat and disappeared under the table to lie down.

Harold resumed working on the financial site he'd been trying to access before his donut was threatened. He had just hacked the bank's firewall when he felt Bear's tail thumping against his foot. He looked up to see Joss Carter walking across the parking lot. "Detective Carter. I thought you would have made your way to the stables by now."

"I thought I'd stop by to see if you had any new information," she replied, sitting down at the table across from him. Bear promptly sat up and deposited his head on her lap, a subtle request for his ears to be scratched. "Fusco should be here soon. We got separated on the interstate and then he got turned around on one of those old cow paths you called a back road."

"I'm afraid I don't have much to offer," Harold said, continuing to explore the site as he spoke. "I haven't heard from John in several hours, and I've only just managed to…oh, wait a minute…"

"What have you got?"

"I've accessed the financial records for Walter Sullivan, the one suspect Detective Fusco was able to ID through his ATV registration. It would appear Mr. Sullivan does have a connection to the woman John is with; he works for Mark Walsh at his construction company in town."

"That's Maggie Barton's brother, right?"

"Correct. It looks like he's been with the company for some time now – he's had periodic direct deposits dating back to the mid-90s. There hasn't been much activity in his account as of late, however early last week he received a deposit of five thousand dollars."

"Sounds like he got paid for a job."

"I don't think so. Not a construction job anyway. Except for two deposits of twenty-five hundred dollars in late 2000 and an insurance settlement back in 2005, this is the largest deposit he's had in the history of this account. All of the payments from Mr. Walsh's company are under five hundred dollars."

"You said the deposits were periodic. Maybe Walsh owed him back pay for something."

"A possibility, yes, except this deposit didn't come from Mr. Walsh's company."

"Then where did it come from?"

"I'm looking." Harold's fingers paused over the keyboard when the source of the money appeared on the screen. "It originated from the company 'Flying Changes Finances and More'. That's Alexis Walsh's accounting firm – Mrs. Barton's sister."

"Maybe Mark uses his sister to balance his books."

"Only if he just made the switch. The other deposits all originated from Walsh's private business account. This one was different for some reason. An upfront payment for disposing of Mrs. Barton, perhaps."

"You can't build a case on coincidences and speculations alone, Finch."

"What do you mean?"

"Without hard evidence linking the Walsh siblings to the apparent attack on Maggie, I have no probable cause to arrest or even detain either of them. Right now, only the men on the ATVs are guilty of a crime. Whether it's attempted murder, terrorizing, or the unlawful discharge of a weapon on government property will depend largely on the evidence found at the scene."

Harold drew his head back. He's expected Lionel to be difficult, but not Joss. "I think it's pretty clear what their intentions are, Detective."

"In context with what Maggie's said, but you need solid proof to successfully convict someone of murder for hire. Right now, this could be seen as a crime borne out of Maggie and John being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Joss explained, not liking the darkening look on Harold's face. "Listen, I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just trying to prepare you for how the DA is going to look at this if nothing more damning can be found."

Harold frowned. The judicial system was one of the more frustrating components of the work he and John did. It was one thing to catch someone in the act of committing a crime, but to prevent one and still prove the perpetrator's intent was another. Getting the incriminating evidence into the hands of the authorities without jeopardizing its integrity or the existence of The Machine was a delicate business.

"What about the will? Did the Walsh family lawyer get back to you?"

"David Walsh's will reads just like you would expect it to. There's no question Maggie Barton inherited the farm. The only stipulation is that if she ever becomes unable to care for the farm – be it from illness, injury, or death – Mark and Alexis will equally split the estate."

"There's your motive," he said, bringing his hand down on the table with a bang.

"But motive alone isn't evidence, Finch. I'm telling you, you need to find something tangible before we can even think about approaching Maggie's siblings." Joss sighed and shook her head. "The fact that Fusco will be arresting those men also has me concerned. We're not exactly in our jurisdiction out here. If there was a body, yes, but a sheriff or game warden should really be handling this."

"It was John that requested your and Detective Fusco's involvement, I merely placed the call," Harold replied. "I trust his judgment in such matters. I also suspect there's more going on here than mere coincidences and speculations."

"And I suppose John's not talking."

"I haven't heard from him since I last spoke to you. For some reason, he's shielding me from whatever has or will happen. I don't like it when he does that, but there's little I can do to convince him otherwise." Harold looked at his watch. "The Walsh siblings have been at the farm for several hours now. I suggest you get over there in case something is in the works."

Joss gave Bear's ears a final scratch before standing and brushing the loose fur from her pants. She had said her piece, and hoped Harold would take her concerns into consideration. "I'm probably the worst person you could have chosen to do this, you know. The only experience I've had with horses is the time I rode the carousel at Coney Island when I was a kid."

"Just think of it as going undercover, Detective."

"Yeah, well, when we send our people into the field, we give them more than a cursory overview of what they're going into."

"I assume you familiarized yourself with the material I sent you?"

"Of course, but it's still a lot to keep straight in my head. This idea of yours will only work if Alexis believes me."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," the hacker said. "Just remember you're going in as a diversion. Keep your credentials hidden until if and when they're required. We don't want either one of the Walsh's getting spooked and taking off."

"Right. I'm supposed to be a potential client looking for a place to keep a horse and I don't know a hoof from a hangnail."

"A horse's hoof is comprised of a keratin structure similar to that of our own nails. So see, you're really not that far off."

Joss gave him an exasperated look. "How did you and John get wound up with this girl anyway?"

"As I told Detective Fusco earlier, it's a trade secret. You have yours and we have ours. All you need to know is Mrs. Barton is in danger and her siblings appear to the source," Harold replied. "Good luck, Detective. And please be careful. If Alexis and Mark want the farm badly enough to kill their own sister for it, they may be willing to harm others who get in their way as well."

"Make sure John knows that too," Joss said, turning to leave.

He watched as she returned to her unmarked cruiser and pulled out onto the main road leading to the stables. He knew she would play her role well, even better than if he had gone in himself. She was confident and could connect with people in a way that made them trust her.

 _And when a person trusts someone, they're more apt to say or do things they would ordinarily hide from a stranger…_

Feeling things were heading in the right direction, Harold reached down for his tea only to discover that the donut beside it was gone. "Bear."

Peering under the table, he caught the Malinois licking the last of the honey glaze off his nose. "Bad dog. Just wait until I tell Mr. Reese about this. He'll…" His words faded when he realized to whom he was referring. "Well, he'll probably tell me not to leave food within your reach, but that's not the point!"

Whining, the dog rolled over on his back, exposing his belly to be rubbed.

"No. Being cute isn't going to work this time," Harold said, at no time feeling foolish for negotiating with a dog. "You took food from me after I explicitly said not to and…"

Bear's tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth and his tail began to wag. Like a father watching his child, Harold felt his resolve start to vanish. It was impossible to stay angry at the dog for very long.

"I guess it _was_ just a donut," he said, leaning down to give him a pat. "But it can't happen again. Do you understand?"

Bear groaned. Harold couldn't be certain if it was an affirmative to his question or just an expression of pleasure at having his belly rubbed. Either way it didn't matter. His donut was gone, and he'd forgiven the thief. He could always return to the café for another if he desired, but the talk with Joss had quelled his appetite.

He was fairly certain the detective had merely been playing the Devil's advocate when she arrived. Their conversation was disconcerting, but she hadn't said anything he didn't already know. If she'd had any real doubts about the case, she wouldn't have come, let alone agreed to go undercover. She was being careful; making sure they had their bases covered before getting too involved. She and Lionel risked their lives and careers every time they assisted them with a Number. A little bit of prudence now could prevent a world of trouble later.

Harold turned his attention back to his computer. He still had work to do before Lionel arrived. The Walsh siblings meant trouble. He, John, and The Machine knew it; now he just had to find the evidence that would prove it to everyone else. Signing into the secure network, he directed his server toward Alexis Walsh's accounting firm. If evidence of her suspected involvement existed, he would find it.

"Tell me, Ms. Walsh," he muttered to himself as he began to hack the site's firewall. "What dirty little secrets do you have and where are you hiding them?"


	7. Chapter 7

John hooked his arm around the gnarled trunk of a tree and gave the hill he was climbing a reproachful look. They were on the upside of the gully they had ridden down on horseback. The terrain was rocky and steep, slowing their progress to a near crawl. Even without his injury, he knew the ascent would have been difficult. His body was honed for short bursts of speed, hand-to-hand combat, and the occasional cat and mouse chase through the city – not mountain climbing.

He looked up in time to see Maggie slip on a loose piece of rock. "You okay?" he called.

"I'm good," she replied, using an exposed tree root to haul herself to her feet. "The ground is soft up here. Be careful. How are you holding up?"

"All right. I'll be better when the ground levels out."

"It's not much further to the top. It's probably a good thing we didn't try to bring the horses up here. I think they would have had trouble on the loose rocks."

John silently agreed. The thought of having to shoot one of her horses had it fallen and broken a leg didn't sit well with him.

Letting go of the tree, he resumed his trek up the hill. His side hurt, but the pain remained tolerable as long as he went slow and took frequent breaks. He used this time to watch and listen, searching for signs that they were being followed. They hadn't heard from the men on the ATVs since leaving them on the upside of the gully. He believed Maggie when she said the machines wouldn't make it down the hill, but that didn't mean they'd given up their chase. It was also possible they'd taken off after the horses; however the meandering path being returned by the GPS chips he'd placed on the animals suggested they were still on the hoof – literally.

Bracing his sore side with his hand, John carefully picked his way across the loose stones that had caused Maggie to trip. He paused once the ground felt solid beneath his feet, taking a moment to catch his breath and size up the remaining distance he had left to go. It wasn't far, and he was relieved to find the edge of the gully wasn't as sheer as it had appeared from below.

"You're almost there," Maggie called down, already having made it to the top. "Do you need a hand?"

"I've got it." Leaning into the incline as much as he could, John powered his way up what remained of the hill.

"You good?"

John could only nod, the climb having left him completely winded.

"Do you think those men are still following us?" she asked after giving him time to catch his breath.

"If they are, that hill will slow them down," he replied. He pulled out his phone and brought up the GPS map to check on their progress. They were still a solid five miles out from the road where he'd told Harold to meet them. Normally he wouldn't balk at such a short distance, but the way he felt, five miles may as well have been fifty. At least the topography didn't show anymore monstrous hills to climb. "Are you ready to go or do you need more time to rest?"

"I'm ready."

"Good. The more distance we can put between ourselves and those guys, the better."

"I couldn't agree more," Maggie said wholeheartedly.

They had barely gone ten paces when John felt the bolt inside him shift. Doubling over, he clutched his side and dropped heavily to his knees, a pained cry escaping him as he met the ground. His vision blurred with dizziness, cold sweat trickled down his face, and coppery tinged bile burnt his throat. Shock was once again trying to consume him, and this time it was coming very close to winning.

 _"Mr. Reese? John? What's going on?"_

"John? Are you all right? What happened?"

It was the combination of Maggie and Harold's frantic voices that brought John back from the edge of oblivion. As tempting as letting go was, he knew there was more at stake than his own life. Maggie, Harold, and an entire barn full of horses were counting on him to come through.

"John?" Maggie was down on her knees, practically shouting in his face. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"The bolt opened," he uttered, the need to breathe shallowly making it difficult to talk.

" _The what? What bolt? John, what happened? Are you and Mrs. Barton all right?"_

"Sorry, Harold. Bad time," he said, reaching up to tap his earwig.

 _"No! John, do not cut me off aga…"_

"He's going to get mad at you if you keep hanging up on him."

"He'll get over it." Moving deliberately, he shifted off his knees to sit on the ground. John lifted the hand that had been clamped against his side and frowned when the saw the amount of fresh blood coating it.

"That doesn't look good," Maggie muttered.

"It's not." He seriously doubted the blades had cut into anything vital when they opened; he would have come close to bleeding out by now if it had. The pain was bad, especially when he moved, but it was the blood readily seeping from around the bolt that had him concerned. Combined with what he'd lost since the initial injury, he knew he couldn't afford to lose much more before the effects of shock became impossible to ignore. "You said you had a first aid kit for the horses. Can I see it?"

Maggie pulled the saddlebags from around her shoulders and gave him the one he'd requested. "You said the bolt opened. What did you mean?"

"The bolt has a mechanical head on it," he explained, working at the saddlebag's buckle with shaking fingers. "Opposing blades are meant to open on impact so the bolt doesn't fall out if the target takes off running. This one misfired – the blades opened a little late."

"Just a little," she replied with a trace of sarcasm. "Are you able to go on?"

"At the moment, no." John dumped the contents of the bag on the ground. Some of the horse specific items were unfamiliar, but it was the bandages, roll cotton, and small bottle of antiseptic he was after. Reaching into his pants pocket, he retrieved his knife and flipped it open. "But I will be."

"What are you going to do?" Maggie asked, her eyes widening as she watched him test the edge of the blade against the side of his thumb.

"The bolt is causing more damage every time I move," he said, struggling out of his jacket. "It's got to come out."

"Come out? Here? Now?" He couldn't be serious. "You do realize we're in the middle of the woods, right?"

"I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea either."

"Can't we just stay here and wait for your boss? He can come in and get us…" Maggie said, grasping at straws. "Or you could stay here and I could go for help…"

John shook his head. "Harold's not equipped to come this far, and I'm not letting you go off alone."

"But…"

"Maggie, you don't seem to be getting it, so let me be blunt: your siblings have put a hit out on you. There's a price on your head and those men chasing us intend to collect, so there's a pretty good chance they're still out there somewhere. If we stay here, we're an easy target. If you go out alone, I can't protect you. Neither of those options work for me." Winded from simply talking, he paused to catch his breath. His energy was fading and fatigue was taking its place. They were wasting time they both couldn't afford to lose. "I'm going to need your help."

The sharp edge was gone from John's voice. To Maggie, he suddenly sounded tired and a little desperate. "What can I do?"

"Are you squeamish?"

"No – I help the vets with the horses all the time."

"Then I need you to pull up on the bolt so I can see where to cut."

"You're so calm about this," she said, watching as he used his knife to remove the fabric of his shirt from around the bolt. "I would have been freaking out a long time ago."

"This isn't my first time." Tearing open a couple alcohol wipes, he cleaned the sticky blood away from the wound. "Field surgery became necessary skill in the military."

"You're a solider?"

"I was."

She brightened a bit. "That's why you remind me of my husband. He's a pilot in the Air Force. He's currently overseas."

"He sounds like a good man."

"He is."

John opened the small bottle of antiseptic and poured some across his knife and the rest over his skin. "Maggie, I'm going to try to stay conscious, but if I can't and those men return…" He reached behind his back and pulled out the gun he had tucked in his waistband.

"Uh-uh, no way," Maggie said as soon as she saw what he had. "I'll throw rocks at them if I have to, but no guns."

"I know you don't want it, but you have to take it. These men are dangerous, Maggie. They mean to kill you. Protect yourself if I can't."

Visibly unhappy with the idea, she accepted the weapon, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground the way her husband had taught her. She knew how to shoot and could hit a target with relative ease, but whether or not she could pull the trigger if the need arose remained to be seen.

"When the bolt comes out, I need you to get as much pressure on the wound as possible," John said once she'd stowed the gun in her own waistband. "The bleeding probably won't stop completely, but we need slow it down."

"I've taken care of horses with badly bleeding wounds before," she reassured him. "I know what to do."

John looked down at his knife for a moment, gathering his thoughts and preparing himself for what he needed to do next. "You ready?"

"I am," she replied, kneeling down beside him. "Are you?"

"Oh, yeah," he uttered. "This'll be a blast."

Using both hands to keep herself steady, Maggie gripped the bolt's shaft and began to slowly pull up. John immediately tensed, but nodded at her to keep going. Gradually, the two points of the first set of blades became visible as they pushed up his skin from underneath.

John set his jaw in concentration as he made the first cut, drawing his knife from the bolt's shaft out to meet the point of the hidden blade. Blood momentarily welled in the incision before spilling out and running down his side; its warmth in stark contrast to the cold sweat coating his skin. The blades appeared the moment he completed his second cut on the opposite side of the bolt. The pain was terrible, but he was so focused it barely registered.

"I think you've almost got it."

"Pull up more," he instructed, his eyes never leaving his work. Three more blade points appeared under his skin. His vision starting to gray, John could feel his blood pressure tanking as he quickly made the remaining cuts. With a sickening rush of pain, the bolt came free into Maggie's hands.

Wasting no time, she tossed the offending projectile behind her and went to John's aid. Prying the bloody knife from his hand, she took him by the arm. "Come on, lay back," she instructed, not liking the pallor of his face. When he was safely on the ground, she tore open one of the cotton rolls and pressed it firmly against the readily bleeding wound. He cried out at the pain the pressure caused, but she didn't let up. "I have to do this. I'm sorry."

Maggie held the padding in place until it was soaked through with blood. Using her teeth, she tore open another roll and pressed it down over the sodden one. "I haven't seen this much blood since Gunner tore his leg open on the fence," she muttered absently. "John, talk to me. Are you all right?"

When he didn't respond, she shifted around until she could better see his face. Although he wore an expression of pain, it was obvious he was out. The stress caused by removing the bolt had been too much and he'd lapsed into unconsciousness. "Just keep breathing for me, John," she said, making sure his shirt collar was loose around his neck.

She was in the process of opening another roll of cotton when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Not recognizing the number, she was wary of who might be on the other end. "Hello?"

 _"Mrs. Barton? This is Harold Quail. I don't know if you remember me, but I'm…"_

"John's boss," she interrupted, relieved to hear his voice. "Right?"

" _That's correct."_

"Oh thank goodness. Please tell me you're close."

 _"I'm still well over an hour away. I seem to have lost contact with John. What's wrong? Has something happened?"_

Maggie filled him in as quickly as she could, unsure as to how much he already knew. "The worst of the bleeding seems to be under control, but he's lost a lot of blood. I think he's gone into shock or something."

 _"It's quite possible. All right, Maggie. You've done well so far. I know you're frightened, but I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say. Can you do that?"_

She nodded, than remembered she was talking on the phone. "Yes."

 _"Excellent. Here's what I need you to do…"_

* * *

The scene looked like something out of a child's picture book. Sprawled in the grass, a fuzzy brown colt lay basking in the late day sun. His mother, a dapple-gray mare, grazed quietly nearby, an attentive ear always tipped in the direction of her dozing foal. Both seemed perfectly content in their corner of the world, where all that mattered was the warm sun, the green grass, and their time together as a family unit.

Smiling, Joss took out her phone and snapped a few photos to show her son. So captivated by the animals, she failed to notice the person that walked up behind her.

"Amazing sight, isn't it?"

Startled, the detective wheeled around to find a tall, slender redhead had joined her at the fence. "It certainly is," she replied, recognizing the woman from the photos Harold sent. _Alexis Walsh. Fancy meeting you here…_

"That's 'Play It Again Piano Man'. He's five days old and a spitting image of his father."

"He's adorable."

"We were hoping for a gray, like his mother. His chest is also narrower than we like to see, but if we train him right and he stays relatively sane, we should be able to sell him for a decent price in a few years."

Joss couldn't stop her eyebrows from rising at the woman's callous tone. She was clearly business motivated and horses were her main commodity.

"So, what brings you to Stepping Pace Acres?"

"I was looking for the owner – Maggie Barton," Joss said. "Is she around?"

"I'm afraid not," Alexis replied, tucking the tablet she was carrying under her arm. "She's away for the time being. I'm her sister, Alexis. Perhaps I can help you."

 _All right, Joss. Make this sound good…_ "I'm in the market for a new trainer for my horse. I was doing some research online when I found this place and thought I'd come check it out."

The redhead brightened. "You've certainly come to the right place. We offer only the best training at our facility. What type of horse do you have?"

 _Our facility…?_ "He's a three year old Saddlebred."

"Nice. Have you started him under saddle yet?"

"No. I've wanted to, but my current trainer says it's too soon. I disagree."

"He should have been broken a year ago. You're loosing valuable ring time with him."

Joss threw her hands up in exasperation. "I know. That's why I'm looking for somebody new. The programs listed here aren't exactly what I'm looking for, but I was hoping to work something out with Mrs. Barton."

"Truth be known," Alexis said, leaning in like she was sharing a secret. "Maggie isn't the best person to talk to about training."

"Really? Her profile says she's been training for years."

"She has, but it's not the type of training you're looking for. You need a fast track program, something that'll have your boy in the ring in a matter of weeks."

"I didn't think your facility offered such programs."

"Currently, we don't. But we will be within the month."

"How?"

Again, Alexis lowered her voice. "Ownership of the farm is in the midst of changing. My brother Mark and I are taking over the family business."

Joss fought to keep her expression neutral. "The website didn't say anything about that…"

"It's not official yet, but it will be soon. We're still waiting on a few things."

 _Like a death certificate?_

"You know how lawyers are with their fine print and triplicate copies of everything."

"I do," Joss replied, able to answer truthfully for once. "May I ask why the farm is changing hands?"

Alexis shrugged like it was no big deal. "Maggie's been having a rough go of things since our father died. Out of the three of us, she was the closest to him, and his passing was really hard on her. She's done well to keep the place going, but the business has really taken a nosedive over the past year or two. She's insisted on following our father's methods and fundamental practices, rather than evolve with the clientele's needs and desires. We've all decided it's in everyone's best interest if Mark and I take over. Maggie will still be around, of course, but she won't have the burden of the business resting on her shoulders."

 _Well, now, isn't that just sisterly of you?_

"Complete transformation of the estate into a show stable will take about a year, but we'll start offering the new training programs immediately," she continued. "We already have buyers for most of the land, except for the fields which we're keeping for haying purposes. We have several high profile trainers lined up and even a show planned for the end of next summer. Once we're finished, you won't even recognize this place."

A cell phone chimed from inside Alexis's pocket. She took it out and glanced at the screen. "I'm sorry – can you excuse me for a minute? I really need to take this."

"Certainly. Take your time." Pretending to turn her attention back to the animals, Joss waited until Alexis was walking away before taking out her own phone and activating the Blue Jack app Harold had given her. A moment later, she had full access to the other woman's phone and her conversation.

"This better be good, Mark. I'm about to seal my first training gig."

" _ **We've got a problem, Alexis, a big one."**_

" _What sort problem?"_

" _ **I just got off the phone with Gamble. They found the horses."**_

" _You didn't answer my question."_

" **They found the horses and that's all. No riders or saddles. I thought those animals meant the world to Maggie. Why would she cut them loose like that?"**

 _"Probably because she knew your idiot friends would follow their trail even if they saw a pile of tack on the ground. Are they alright?"_

" _ **The horses are fine. Gamble said the blood they found must have come from either Maggie or the guy she's with."**_

 _"Let's hope it's Maggie. Everything we've done hinges on her not coming back. What did you tell him to do with them?"_

 **" _Turn them loose and start backtracking to the gully where they first lost sight of Maggie."_**

" _You did_ what _? Mark, do you have any idea what Count alone is worth? I swear, if they have as much as a single scratch on them…"_

" _ **Chill, Sis. They'll find their way home. Besides, a couple of scratches won't hurt Count's ability to put out."**_

" _That's not the point."_

" _ **Look, do you want them to find her and finish the job, or not?"**_

" _They should have finished the job the first time. See why I said we should have done this ourselves?"_

 _" **I told you I didn't want to go there again. Besides, Sully came through last time. Just give them a chance."**_

 _"They encountered Maggie and her little friend twice on the access road before deciding to chase them into the woods. Exactly how many chances do they need?"_

 _" **They were expecting her to be alone."**_

 _"She gives trail rides for a living. The chance of her having company was pretty high."_

 _" **Well, they're asking for more money now. Compensation for taking out the guy that's with her."**_

" _Yeah, that's not going to happen. I'm having second thoughts about paying them the rest anyway."_

 _" **We had a deal. If you refuse to pay, they'll…"**_

 _"They'll what? Go to the police? Saying anything would land them in jail right beside us. And with their records – especially Gamble's – who are the authorities going to believe? A couple of educated, productive entrepreneurs like us, or a washed up pair of thieves?"_

 _" **Alexis…"**_

 _"Oh, don't worry, Mark. Your friends will get their money when they finish the job."_

 _" **I hope so. Sully's got a bad temper. I don't want to piss him off. What do you want me to do now?"**_

 _"Park yourself at the trailhead and wait for the horses. They're bound to come back that way. I want them in the barn before dark."_

 _" **All right. I'll see what I can do."**_

 _"And Mark?"_

 _" **Yeah?"**_

 _"Don't call me again unless you have good news."_

Joss was still trying to process the conversation she'd just heard when Alexis returned. With effort, she pasted on a smile. "Everything all right?"

"Of course. Just a client calling to check on something." Alexis reached into her pocket and withdrew a business card. "I really hate to run on you, but I've got a few things I need to get done before the evening chores start."

"Oh, no problem," Joss replied, accepting the woman's card. "I'm not ready to sign up for anything just yet anyway. I need to look at my budget and see what I can actually afford."

"Well, I'm an accountant on the side, so if you need help, give me a shout."

When she smiled, the detective couldn't stop the shiver that ran through her body. As genuine as the gesture appeared, she now had no doubt that what Harold and John believed was true: Alexis and Mark Walsh were manipulative and calculating cold-hearted killers.

"Give me a call in a few days and we can set up an appointment to discuss your horse's training. I look forward to hearing from you."

 _Oh don't worry…_ Joss thought as she began walking toward her vehicle. _You'll be hearing from me again real soon…_


	8. Chapter 8

The distant call of a chick-a-dee was the first thing John became aware of as his consciousness slowly returned. Next came the warmth of the sun on his face and a faint breeze scented with the earthy aromas of the forest. Accustomed to waking up in dank stockrooms and claustrophobic trunks, he would have found his current situation to be almost pleasant if it wasn't for the pain radiating from his left side.

Experience had taught him that walking up on the ground in pain was never a good thing. The party responsible was generally nearby and waiting for the opportune moment to jab you with their toe or wave a gun in your face. Sometimes they just left you bound and bleeding, with plans to finish the job later on. And then there were the ones that were so confident in the finality of their handy work they simply never came back. He'd always enjoyed the latter types, especially their comic look of surprise when he tapped them on the shoulder right before he knocked them senseless.

He searched his foggy mind for the reason behind his current predicament. All he knew for certain was that he was working a Number; after that, things became more scattered. The Number was a woman. She owned a farm and raised horses; fancy horses that were comfortable to ride. She was in danger from her siblings, but they weren't the immediate threat. Two men armed with crossbows had chased them into the woods. They'd escaped with the horses, but the chances were high that they were still being followed.

The sound of footsteps nearby caused him to automatically tense. It was a bad move. The dull ember in his side abruptly flared into a full-blown inferno. Groaning, John clamped an arm across his stomach and tried to roll onto his side when a pair of hands closed tightly on his shoulder. Acting out of reflex, he swung in defense even before he'd opened his eyes to see his attacker.

"Whoa! John, it's me! Maggie! Take it easy."

He was halfway to his feet by the time his head cleared enough to recognize the person in front of him. "Maggie?"

"Yeah. It's me," she said, her eyes wide with both fear and surprise.

As the adrenaline faded from his system, John dropped back to the ground, the day's events solidifying in his mind in a stark, painful rush. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay. You were confused."

"How long was I out?"

"About twenty minutes. How do you feel?"

"Been better," he replied, than after some consideration: "Been worse. Got any water?"

"Harold called," Maggie said, retrieving a bottle from the saddlebags. "I told him everything."

Nodding his thanks for the water, John pried off the top with shaking hands and brought it to his lips. His intense thirst made the desire to guzzle the entire bottle overwhelming, but his stomach was already upset. Overfilling it with water would only invite trouble.

"He talked me through packing and wrapping your wound. I got the bleeding under control, but it probably wouldn't take much to start it up again. And I'm really sorry about the bandage color. It was the first one I grabbed and I didn't realize…"

"It's not bad," he said, referring to the florescent pink and black zebra striped strapped around his middle. "Real men aren't afraid to wear pink."

"Yeah, well don't try telling that to my husband, because he'll deny it. Vehemently."

John tried to return her smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. The pain wasn't as sharp now that the bolt was gone, but it was no less intense. The effects of blood loss were also becoming more apparent; the mind/body control techniques he'd been utilizing were no longer having the desired effect. He knew it was only a matter of time before his usefulness to Maggie wore thin, and he became more of a liability than an asset.

"You're really pale, John. Wouldn't it better for you to lay down?"

"Probably, but we're losing daylight. I want to be as close to the access road as possible before dark."

"Harold said to stay here."

"It's not safe."

"I haven't heard anything from those guys chasing us. Maybe they've given up."

"Or they could just be really bad trackers. Either way, I don't risk lives on maybes."

Realizing there was no changing his mind, Maggie helped John to his feet and steadied him while he found his balance. When he seemed stable enough, she released his arm and retrieved the gun he had loaned her from her waistband.

"You should hang on to it," he said, panting slightly from the exertion of standing.

Maggie shook her head. "Uh-uh. Security is your gig, not mine."

John tucked the weapon under his belt and took out his phone, taking a moment to reorient himself with their direction of travel. Normally five miles wouldn't cause him to think twice, but the way he was feeling, it might as well have been five hundred. He tried a few tentative steps. The painful protest from his side must have registered on his face, as Maggie stepped over to support him again.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" she asked. "We could hide in the bushes or something."

John shook his head. "I'll be fine as long as we go slow."

Skepticism showing on her face, Maggie picked up the saddlebags and his jacket from the ground. "If I'm going too fast or you need to stop," she said, settling the jacket over his shoulders. "Let me know."

Allowing Maggie to take the lead, John fell into step several feet behind her. The pace she set was good, and he was able to keep up without causing undue stress to his injured side. Things seemed to be going well until he noticed her anxiously looking back at him every dozen or so strides. He valued her concern, but it was unnecessary and would ultimately slow them down.

"Got anymore of those horse stories?" he asked.

"A ton of them, but do you really want to hear more?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Um…I know. How about Count's first show? He was only eight months old at the time, but he was already so full of himself that…"

As her story unfolded, John found himself welcoming the distraction too. In his compromised state, it would've been far too easy to focus on the pain and allow it to consume him completely. With his attention split between listening and monitoring their surroundings, he was able push his discomfort to the back of his mind where it belonged.

That is, at least, until he tripped over a root hidden in the leaves. "Ow!"

"Are you…?"

"Fine!" John hissed, the sudden shock of pain taking his breath away.

Maggie frowned, but kept going.

He stood hunched over until the pain and his breathing were back under control. Maggie had resumed her story, but he hardly heard it now. With an inward groan, John set off again and resigned himself for the long, uncomfortable journey that lay ahead.

* * *

An hour later found them a little more than half way through the remaining distance to the access road. Such slow progress would normally be an embarrassment, but given his deteriorating condition, John thought they were making decent time. If they could keep it up, he guessed they would make the trailhead just before sunset.

"…We were cantering through the field when my friend's horse, Treat, gave this huge buck. I thought for sure Becky was going to come off, but she somehow managed to land on the gelding's neck and…"

Although they were climbing a lengthy hill, Maggie managed to keep up the chatter. John was at the point where he would have preferred silence, but a constant flow of words was better than being needlessly fussed over. _That will come soon enough…_ he thought, already dreading what Harold's reaction was going to be like.

"…Treat came to an abrupt stop and this time Becky went flying right over his head. She was all right, but now we had a loose horse to deal with…" She was still talking when they reached the top of the hill.

Exhausted, sore, and badly winded, John sank heavily onto the first log he found. It was taking longer each time to recover from the exertion of walking, especially if there was an incline or obstacles to navigate. Looking down at his hands, he noted the obvious tremor and slight bluing of his nail beds. He was nearing the limit of what his body could do on a diminished blood supply. _Just a little longer…_

"…We were riding double on Count – he's such a good sport about things like that – and finally came across Treat grazing about an acre from where…"

He was trying unsuccessfully to pry the top off of his water bottle when he heard it. In the city, such a sound would have barely registered, but deep in the forest, the distinct chime of a cell phone was difficult to miss. The phone rang twice more before it was answered by a distinctly male voice.

"…Luckily he didn't break any of his tack while he was free. The reins alone cost…" Maggie fell silent when she noticed the change in John's behavior. At first she didn't understand why he'd gone on alert, but than the sounds of the distant conversation reached her ears and she felt her anxiety begin to build. "Is it them? Do they know we're here?"

John shot her an irritated look and signaled for her to be quiet. If the men weren't yet aware of their presence, the last thing he wanted to do was tip them off. He did, however, want to find out what they were up to.

He levered himself off the log and went over to where she sat. "Stay here and be quiet," he uttered in her ear.

"But…"

"Stay!"

Driven by his training and a fresh dose of adrenaline, John hardly spared his injured side a thought as he crept through the trees. Kneeling down behind a dense cluster of bushes, he parted the leaves just enough to see down to the bottom of the hill. There was no questioning who the men were, and both had a crossbow strapped to their back. The man wearing a hat – identified earlier by Harold as Walter Sullivan – was the one holding the phone.

Retrieving his own cell, John activated the Blue Jack app and waited for the forced paring to be complete.

 _"… **Isn't going as planned, Sully."**_

 _"Do you guys want this done right or done quick? 'Cuz it can't be both.""We just want it done. And in case you haven't noticed, you have about an hour of daylight left."_

 _"We have night vision gear, but I doubt we'll need it. We're not far from them now."_

 _" **That's what you said last time and look how that turned out."**_

 _"How were we supposed to know they'd turned the horses loose? Come on, Mark. Give me some credit here. Have I ever let you down?"_

 _" **It's not me, Sully. It's Alexis. She's getting impatient."**_

 _"You can tell Alexis to keep her panties on. We're here to do a job, not to keep your spoiled little brat of a sister happy. If you want this to look like an accident, we can't just walk up and start shooting. Having to use crossbows isn't helping much either."_

 _" **I know, I know, you don't like the crossbows. I don't know why she chose those. I told her it was a bad idea…"**_

 _"How's the extra cash coming along?"_

 _" **She said no."**_

 _"Excuse me?"_

 _"Alexis won't pay extra for the hit on the guy. It wasn't part of the deal."_

 _"The deal changed when Maggie invited a friend along. Either we get the cash or they both walk out of here alive."_

 _" **You can't do that! We had a deal!"** _

_"Are you even listening to me? We're not talking about roughing someone up here, Mark. One person getting killed by a stray bolt is unfortunate, but two? The questions the cops are going to ask will get uncomfortable real quick. So now we're talking murder and body disposal. You can't expect us to something that risky for free."_

 _" **She won't go for it."**_

 _"Than you'll just have to pay us yourself."_

" _ **How much?"**_

 _"Another ten grand apiece."_

 _" **WHAT? You know damn well I don't have that kind of money."**_

 _"You will once the farm changes hands."_

 _" **Do you know how long that could take?"**_

 _"Gamble and I can wait. Awhile. And, if you don't pay, I'm sure the police would love to know the location of your old pickup. It's been in the swamp for a while, but I'm sure something useful has survived. Maybe some of your mother's blood or a few pieces of horse hair stuck up under the bumper."_

 _" **You wouldn't dare."**_

 _"What makes you so sure?"_

 _" **You'd be incriminating yourself too."**_

 _"Not if I submitted the tip anonymously. And, if I remember correctly, you were the last one to drive the truck. You and Alexis trusted me to run down your mother, but not to dispose of the evidence when I was done. The thing is, I wiped down the steering wheel before I got out – did you?"_

From his hiding place in the bushes, John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sullivan just admitted to killing Maggie's mother over a decade before and implicated her siblings in its arrangement and cover up. These guys were turning out to be more dangerous than any of them had originally thought.

 _" **I'd talk. I'd tell them about your involvement and you'd go down too."**_

 _"I'd gladly go back to Riker's if it meant taking you two with me. Just think how good Alexis would look in an orange jumpsuit."_

 _" **She was right. We should have done this ourselves."**_

 _"It took you almost three years to off your old man, and than another ten to work up the berries to go after Maggie. Do you really think Alexis is going to wait that long again?"_

 _" **I thought we were friends, Sully."**_

 _"We are friends, Mark."_

 _" **Friends don't blackmail each other."**_

 _"It's only blackmail if you don't pay."_

 _" **Just do your job, Walter. And if you guys screw up again, I wouldn't be showing my face back here if I were you."**_

 _"You talk tough, Mark, but tell me: who are you more afraid of, me or your baby sister?"_

The line abruptly cut off in John's ear, but he still heard Sullivan's humorless chuckle from where he sat. The man was considerably colder than he'd thought during their initial meeting on the road. He spoke with the prowess of an experienced killer, and not the kind sanctioned by the government.

 _These guys have to be stopped…_

Stifling a grunt as he hauled himself to his feet, John hurried back to where he'd left Maggie waiting.

"Is it them?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"Yes. Come on. We have to move."

Maggie grabbed the saddlebags and hurried after him. He was limping and pale, but otherwise seemed unhindered by the bleeding hole in his side. Whatever he'd seen or heard had him moving so quickly she had to jog a spell to catch up.

"I'm going to need your help," he said as she came up beside him. John was in the process of checking his gun, cycling it through and making sure there was a round in the chamber. Even with the boost from the adrenaline, he knew confronting the men physically was going to be difficult. He wanted the weapon ready in case his body wasn't up to the task.

"You're going to shoot them?" she asked.

"Only if they make me."

"But wouldn't it be better to get them before they get us?"

It was difficult not to agree with her sentiments. Shooting the men on sight would be the simplest solution, but it wasn't his way. "I know it sounds strange, but we need these guys alive. They know things that will be key to convicting your siblings."

"Of trying to kill me?"

He tucked the weapon back under his waistband. "And of murder."

Maggie gave him a sideways glance, but didn't question it further. "I'm not sure how much help I can be. I'm a terrible fighter."

"You won't have to fight."

"Then what do you need me to do?"

"How are your acting skills?" he asked.

"O-okay, I guess," Maggie replied, stammering over his odd question. "Why?"

"I can't take both of them on at once..."

"I don't think you're in any shape to take them on at all…"

"…And I'm going to need you as a distraction to draw them apart," he finished, purposely ignoring her remark.

"How?"

"I'll tell you, but we're only going to have one chance to make this work, so listen closely…"


	9. Chapter 9

Harold's teeth rattled together as he sped along the poorly maintained auxiliary road. Traveled more frequently by ATVs than cars, the track was heavily rutted and seeded with station wagon sized potholes. Bear had taken refuge on the floor behind the passenger seat, periodically whining to show his disapproval of the bumpy ride.

Daring to take his eyes off the road, the hacker tapped a few keys on his laptop. He normally wouldn't multitask while driving, but the urgency of their situation didn't allow for pulling over to do research. Since speaking with Maggie, his focus had shifted from investigating the Walsh siblings to finding John and getting him the help he needed as quickly as possible.

He failed to see a large hump in the middle of the road and struggled to maintain control as the car went airborne. Shaken but not deterred, he stomped on the accelerator again as soon as all four wheels were back on the ground. "It's all right, Bear. I know what I'm doing," he said, trying to reassure the frightened dog and, to some extent, himself. "Sort of."

Harold's earwig crackled to life.

" _Glasses! What the hell are you trying to do? I can barely keep up with you!"_ Judging by the tone of Lionel's voice, the homicide detective wasn't impressed with his driving skills.

"I'm attempting to be at the location John specified at the agreed upon time. If you would prefer to follow at a slower rate of speed, Detective, I'm sure he'll understand when I arrive alone."

 _"Yeah, well you won't be doing Wonder Boy any favors if we both crash before we get there."_

Realizing Lionel had a point, Harold backed off the gas and reduced his speed from suicidal to moderately foolish.

 _"I think one of my kidneys rattled out back there. I thought you said they kept these roads maintained?"_

"This isn't the access road. We would have had to go miles out of our way reach to the nearest public in gate, so I found us a shortcut. It'll save us at least twenty-five minutes."

 _"You mean I'm ruining the suspension of this CITY OWNED vehicle for a measly twenty-five minutes?"_

"I could have saved more, but I failed to pack a chainsaw before I left." Harold heard Lionel mutter something very unprofessional under his breath. "No worries, Detective. I'll pay for any necessary repairs."

He briefly turned his attention back to the image on his laptop. The shortcut wasn't marked with directional signs, so he was relying on a live GPS feed to keep him on the right track. "The junction to the access road is just up ahead. Conditions will improve momentarily."

The dense forest broke just when he thought his car was about to shudder apart. Fishtailing on the loosely packed gravel, Harold eased off the accelerator and aimed for the center of the road as he worked to bring the vehicle back under control. As the momentum dissipated, the car straightened out, and he was able to safely increase his speed once again.

 _"Where'd you learn to drive like that? You and Mr. Wonderful running some sort of Back Ally Rally I don't know about?"_

Harold's wildly racing heart was in his throat, but he paid it little attention. If he had learned anything since partnering with John, it was not to give into panic. To act calm was to be calm; to be calm was to be in control. "We all have our secrets, Detective."

Needing to calm down after the cross-country excursion, Harold sat back and focused on keeping the car centered on the road. Typically sidelined from the physically demanding aspects of the job by his disability, he found the excitement to be both exhilarating and exhausting at the same time. How John managed to keep up with it on a near daily basis and remain functional was beyond him.

Movement from behind prompted him to look in the rearview mirror. Bear had finally recovered enough of his composure to come up from the floor and take his customary position on the backseat. Stretching his narrow muzzle up to the lowered window, his black nose twitched as it took in the scents of the rapidly passing world. Harold couldn't help feeling envious of the dog and his ability to regain his nerve so quickly. To be driven by instinct rather than emotion was one of the advantages animals had over their human counterparts.

His laptop beeped. It was the malware program he'd sent to sweep Alexis Walsh's personal and business accounts reporting back. He'd literally written it on the fly and hadn't had time to make the virus overly sophisticated, merely telling it to report on any transaction totaling more than five thousand dollars. Looking at the screen, Harold could tell most of the data it had kicked back belonged to the clients of her accounting firm. There were well over four hundred hits from the previous week alone. Her business looked to be almost as profitable as her sister's farm.

The hacker shook his head. He didn't have time to search through so many extraneous records. He tapped a few keys to access the other feature he'd written into the program. The key word search had been a last minute thought and he didn't hold much hope for the results. He'd given the virus several dozen terms he felt were pertinent to the case to search for in the transaction descriptions.

At first glance, most of the hits came from the terms "real estate" and "lawyer," but his earlier research had revealed a good portion of Alexis's clients were involved in either property sales or practiced law. It was the single hits that interested him the most, and after scanning through the list, one in particular caught his eye. Harold hovered his mouse pointer over the term to access the transaction where it originated.

"Now this is interesting…"

" _What is?"_ Lionel's voice rumbled in his ear, the detective apparently still listening on.

"I just found a credit card receipt from a sporting goods depot in Albany with Ms. Walsh's signature on it."

 _"So? Maybe she likes bocce ball or Ultimate Frisbee."_

"I'm afraid not, Detective. The receipt is for the purchase of two composite crossbows and several packages of mechanical broadhead bolts. The exact same weapon the men the Walsh siblings hired to kill Maggie are using. Coincidence? I think not."

 _"Alexis bought the murder weapons on credit? I thought you said this woman was smart?"_

"Apparently she overlooked this small, but vital detail." Harold searched the account for any other items of interest. "There's also a receipt here for a pair of night vision goggles. Seems she was trying to prepare for any scenario."

 _"Yeah, except for tangling with Wonder Boy. How are you getting this stuff anyway? You're not seriously doing this while you drive?"_

"Some people are better at multitasking than others."

 _"But you're going over fifty miles an hour! It's also illegal."_

"So write me a citation." Harold was about to cut Lionel off when his earpiece beeped. It was John. "I'm sorry, Detective, I'll have to call you back."

 _"Oh, right. Sure you…"_

The hacker ended one call and immediately picked up the next. "Mr. Reese, it's good to hear from you. I was getting concerned."

* * *

John leaned heavily against the trunk of a large tree and scrubbed a hand across his face. They had just covered the better part of a mile in less than twenty minutes and he was exhausted. Waiting for his breathing and heart rate to come down to an acceptable range, he checked the bandage covering his wound.

"You're bleeding again," Maggie said, noticing the blood seeping from beneath the dressing.

"It never really stopped," he replied, tugging his shirt back down and drawing his jacket over it. "Are you ready?"

"Well, I'm nervous," she admitted sheepishly. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Let me worry about myself, all right? If you're onboard, I am too."

Maggie sighed and nodded, still wondering how she'd gotten wrapped up in such convoluted circumstances. "Yeah. Let's take these guys down."

John smirked. "Go get into position. I have a call to make."

"Harold?"

"I can't have fun without checking in with the boss first."

Chuckling, Maggie waded through a patch of bushes and disappeared into the darkening woods.

When she was out of sight, John took out his phone and input Harold's number.

 _"Mr. Reese, it's good to hear from you. I was getting concerned."_

"Sorry to cut you off before, Finch. I had my hands full."

 _"That's what Mrs. Barton said. I'd ask why you didn't tell me about your mishap in the first place, but I imagine this call isn't going to be social in nature."_

"Maggie and I are going to take out the two men following us."

" _Are you in any condition to be doing that, John?" Harold asked, sounding both concerned and skeptical at the same time._

"I'll manage," he replied, quickly changing the subject. "Can you let Carter know these men hold information connecting Maggie's siblings to the death of their parents?"

 _"The parents? I thought the mother died in an accident and the father of liver failure?"_

"That's the belief. From the conversation I heard between Sullivan and the brother, the mother was a murder for hire and the father the siblings did themselves. Based on what Maggie said, I think he was poisoned – possibly something mixed in with his favorite nightcap."

 _"If what you heard is true, these men may be more dangerous and possibly more desperate than we originally perceived. Perhaps you two should stay where you are. We're less than an hour away from the rendezvous point."_

"They'll overtake us by then. This is the best option." John heard Harold sigh and knew the older man wasn't happy. He'd considered going to ground and hiding until the men had passed, but the thought of them wandering around in the dark with loaded crossbows quickly changed his mind. He wouldn't risk his friends being hit if either of the men got spooked and started shooting at sounds in the dark.

" _You know I trust your judgment, Mr. Reese. Just please…"_

"I'll be careful, Finch." The sound of voices in the distance caught his attention. "I need to go. Tell Fusco to bring his good cuffs – he's going to need them." John terminated the call.

As the men came into view, he slipped his right hand into his jacket to both protect his side and access his gun. "Hey, fellas," he greeted, startling them as they came around the corner. Sullivan froze, causing Gamble to plow into his back. "Fancy meeting you here."

Both raised their crossbows, but it was Sullivan that approached. "So you're the one we hit," he said, nodding toward the hand he had tucked under his jacket. "I kind of thought that's what happened. There's no way Maggie would have made it this far with an arrow in her. Frankly I'm surprised even you made it this far."

"Give me some credit, big guy," John said, doing his best to look harmless. "I'm not as soft as I look."

Gamble began to snicker but stopped abruptly when Sullivan shot him a dirty look. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Maggie. The girl you were riding with, or have you lost so much blood, you don't remember the last six hours?"

"Oh, her." John shrugged. "She's gone."

"Where?"

"Beats me."

Sullivan rapidly closed the distance between them and thrust the loaded crossbow into John's face. "I'm only going to ask one more time, funny man, so listen up: Where. Is. She?"

Unfazed by the weapon in his face, the former agent sighed. "I honestly don't know. When I started falling behind, she got impatient and left me. Think I can catch a ride back with you guys? I really don't want to spend the night out here."

"I think he's lying to you, Sully. I'll bet she's right…" Gamble's declaration faded when he heard a rustling in the bushes behind them. He turned around just in time to see a flash of something white streak through the trees. "There! There she is! See! I knew he was lying! She's right there in the woods!"

"Go after her, but don't shoot her – that's my job," Sullivan instructed. "I'll take care of this one and catch up with you in a minute."

Nodding like the fool he was, Gamble plunged into the near dark forest without hesitation.

"He'll never catch her," John said once they were alone.

"No, but he'll follow her. And he makes so much noise, I won't have any trouble tracking them down when I'm done with you." Sullivan engaged the safety on his crossbow and set it aside before turning to look at John with an almost pitying gaze. "See what happens when you get mixed up with the wrong people?"

"I didn't realize Maggie fit into that classification."

"Well, I suppose she doesn't, but she's related to people that do."

"Is this a guilt by association thing?" John asked.

"More like being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it makes you feel any better, you weren't the intended target."

"So let me go."

Sullivan chuckled – it was the same humorless tone he'd heard him use on the phone with Maggie's brother. "As much as I'd like to – and really, I would – I can't. You've seen too much. I can't have you running to the police and telling them what Gamble and I are here to do."

"You mean murdering an innocent woman so her brother and sister can inherit the family farm by default?"

Sullivan visibly stiffened. "How do you know that?"

John merely smiled, angering the other man even more.

"You know, I don't like watching people suffer. I had even planned to make this easy on you by putting a bullet between your eyes. But seeing as you want to screw with me..." Sullivan reached behind him and retrieved a sizeable hunting knife from his belt. "I have no problems screwing with you."

John's hand tightened around his gun as he advanced, ready to take the large man out if he came too close. His thumb was just starting to release the safety when a blood-curdling scream erupted from the woods.

"What the hell?" Startled, Sullivan turned away to look for the source of the scream.

It was the moment John had been waiting for. Launching himself off the tree, he brought the butt of his gun down on the back of Sullivan's head with a satisfying crunch. Unconscious and bleeding, the large man crumpled to the ground.

John made quick work of patting him down, taking several knives, a small caliber handgun, and the crossbow out of his possession. He tucked the gun into his jacket and dumped the rest of the items in the bushes before moving on to catch up with Maggie. The fading light and dense tree cover making it difficult to see, he had to rely on his sense of hearing to guide him to her location.

"You can't run forever."

"Go away!"

"If you keep running, you're just going to die tired."

"I can't believe Mark and Alexis sent you guys to kill me. They must have been really desperate."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I think you're an idiot."

John smirked. It was always interesting to see how different people reacted in dangerous situations. Some froze, while others rose to the occasion and faced whatever challenges arose head on. Although Maggie had been timid at first, her confidence had steadily grown and he was now able to see the fiery, tenacious woman hidden inside.

"Oh, put that thing down before you shoot yourself in the foot."

And, by the sound of it, Gamble was in the process of discovering it too.

Using the loud conversation to mask his progress, John slowly closed the distance between him and the arguing duo. They were still going at it when Maggie glanced back and spotted him looking around the mossy trunk of a tree. Holding up his hand, he signaled for her to stop and wait.

Maggie took a few more steps to keep Gamble's attention on her before she stopped and folded her arms across her chest. "If you seriously think I'm just going to stand here and let you shoot me with that thing, you're crazier than I thought."

"I'm not crazy," Gamble said defensively.

"Only a crazy person would volunteer to kill for someone else."

"I didn't volunteer for nothing. Sully asked if I wanted to make some quick cash, and when it comes to easy money, you don't ask questions, you just do what's asked."

"Well, that was your first mistake."

"Oh yeah?" Gamble asked, brandishing the crossbow in Maggie's face. "And what's my second mistake gonna be?"

John stepped out from behind the tree and tapped him on the shoulder. "This," he said, and drove his closed fist into the man's face as he turned around. The momentum from the swing took both men to the ground; Gamble landing in an unconscious heap, and John on his hands and knees.

"That was awesome!" Maggie exclaimed, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. "I can't believe it worked!"

John wanted to praise her, tell her she had done her part well, but his efforts had come with a price. The force of the punch and subsequent fall had revived every damaged nerve in his side, and they were now vying for his full attention. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited to see if his body could beat the shock or if the end of the road had come.

Concerned when he made no attempt to stand, Maggie jumped over Gamble and went to his side. "Hey, are you all right?"

Nodding, John reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of flexi-cuffs. "I just need a minute," he said, passing her the restraints. "Tie him up, than search him. His buddy had a bunch of knives on him. Take anything you find."

She hesitated. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm a little dizzy. It'll pass." As Maggie went to busy herself with Gamble, John worked to deliberately slow and deepen his breathing. Significant blood loss made it easy to hyperventilate, and by countering this, he hoped to slow his heart rate and ease the dizziness as well. After a few minutes, the improvement he felt was minimal, but enough.

He was in the process of getting to his feet when he heard the distinctive click of a weapon being cocked. He saw Maggie freeze in the midst of turning out one of Gamble's pockets, her eyes locked on something in the trees behind him.

"The first one of you to make any sudden moves gets the other one shot."

From the corner of his eye, John could see Sullivan looming in the shadows. The man had managed to find his crossbow in the bushes and was alternating its aim between him and Maggie. He cursed himself for not tying him up when he'd had the chance. At least he'd had the forethought to keep the gun.

"What was that?" Sullivan asked, taking a step toward him.

"I said your skull is obviously thicker than it looks," John replied. He was slowly moving the hand he had under his jacket toward the gun tucked in his belt.

"You've got some nerve talking to me like that," Sullivan said, brandishing the loaded crossbow in his direction.

"And you've got some nerve pointing that thing at me."

"You're in no position to be mouthing off, buddy."

"I could say the same thing about you."

With a humorless chuckle, Sullivan locked the crossbow and slung it over his shoulder. "You know, I am really going to enjoy messing you up," he said, pulling out the hunting knife he'd threatened him with earlier.

"Leave him alone."

"Maggie…" John warned, not wanting her to get involved.

"Looks like somebody finally found some courage. Just wait your turn, darling. You'll get yours when I'm done with your friend."

She took a step closer. "I said leave him alone. This is between you and me."

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, Mags, but this is between you and your brother and sister. I'm just the messenger."

"Hey, Sully. You know that saying 'don't shoot the messenger'?" As the large man turned to face him, John fired two rounds through the side of his jacket. Both shots hit their mark, and Sullivan dropped to the ground with a shout. "I disagree."

He pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to where Sullivan lay clutching his right leg. Snatching the crossbow, he tore out the bolt and slung the weapon over his shoulder. "I'm keeping this."

"You crazy son of a bitch."

"I'll give you one of those," John replied, taking three more pairs of flexi-cuffs from his pocket. He grabbed Sullivan by the arm and roughly sat him up. "And here's a clue as to which one it is." He jerked his hands through a pair of the cuffs and pulled them overly tight.

Sullivan grunted. "Let me guess: you're saving her for yourself, aren't you, tough guy?"

Used to being taunted and threatened by his adversaries, John typically paid little attention to the inflammatory remarks sent his way. Some comments, however, just couldn't be ignored.

Seizing Sullivan by the throat, John squeezed until he felt the soft cartilage start to give. "You say you don't like suffering. Well I do," he growled in the man's ear. "You should be thankful there's a lady present. Otherwise we'd be having an entirely different conversation." He shoved Sullivan back to the ground, satisfied to hear him gasping for air.

"You didn't learn that in Basic Training."

John looked over to find Maggie watching him with a bewildered expression on her face. Although he couldn't be certain in the low light, he also thought there was a trace of fear in her eyes. "You're right. I didn't." His response came out harsher than he'd liked, but he was irritable. Fatigue, pain, and blood loss were all taking their toll. Running on fumes and borrowed time, any apologies and explanations would have to wait.

He tossed her a pair of the flexi-cuffs. "Tie up his feet. I'm going to need your help moving him."

Maggie made quick work of binding the still unconscious Gamble's ankles with the cuffs. Then working together, they maneuvered him until the two men were lying boot-to-boot. Taking his final pair of cuffs, John fastened one end to Sullivan's right ankle and the other to Gamble's left. Now every time Gamble moved, he'd give his buddy's wounded leg a painful jolt.

"Search them again. I don't want to take any chances of these guys getting loose."

By the time they were finished, they had amassed an assortment of knives and multi tools from the men's pockets. Uncertain as to how resourceful they were, John even confiscated their watches and belts. Trussed like hogs and without their cache of supplies, their pursuers would be going nowhere anytime soon.

Exhausted and hurting, John leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. He could almost feel the strength trickling out of his body; it was only a matter of time before it began to fail. Adrenaline, training, and purpose had carried him this far, now he had to find enough fortitude to take him the rest of the way.

"Are you okay?"

He looked up to find Maggie watching him. "I'm tired," he admitted. "How are you doing?"

"I'm still just trying to process everything that's happened. I'm sure I'll be a wreck once this all hits home, but..." She sighed and held up a blocky item for him to see. "Gamble had this on his belt. Do you know what it is?"

John took the object with shaking hands. "Night vision goggles," he replied, nodding his approval. "Nice ones too. These will make the rest of the trip a little easier."

"You're exhausted, John. You can send Harold our location, right? Let's stay here and let him come to us."

"I want to go as far as I can. Trust me, Maggie. It'll be easier on everyone."

"Not you."

John shrugged and took out his phone to reference their location in relation to the direction they needed to travel. "I like a challenge."

"What about those guys?" she asked, turning to look at the two men.

"Leave them. Someone's bound to miss them and come looking. Eventually."

"You can't leave us here!" Sullivan said, his voice hoarse from being choked.

John pushed off the tree, eager to leave the mouthy man behind. "Watch me."

"You're seriously going to leave them here?"

"Yup." He paused to pick up the second crossbow. "Grab the rest of their gear. We'll dump it along the way."

"Hey!" Sullivan shouted. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on you, you bastard! I'll rearrange your face so bad, they won't even be able to use dental records to identify you."

"Don't you remember what happened the last time you mouthed off to him?" Maggie asked. "Do you really want to go through that again?"

"Bitch," he spat. "Now I see why Alexis wanted you bumped off. You're crazy. Both of you."

"The boys at Riker's are going love him," John muttered as he turned and headed off in the direction that would take them to the road.

Ignoring Sullivan's continued threats, Maggie hurried after him, her arms and pockets full of the gear they had stripped off the men. They walked in silence for a few minutes before a disturbing thought occurred to her. "John, what if something gets them? There aren't many big predators around, but even a couple of coyotes could be dangerous the way they're tied up."

"Relax – Harold's bringing a detective friend along to give them a ride back. I just want them to sweat it out for a while."

"You did tell Sullivan you liked to watch people suffer."

"Yeah. A shame we'll miss it."

Maggie chuckled. The fear she'd felt when he'd grabbed Sullivan by the throat was gone. John was a complex man harboring more secrets than most. She had no doubt he could have snapped the man's neck with ease if he'd wanted to, but the fact he didn't spoke volumes about his character.

John stopped when they came to a small clearing flanked by the crumbling remains of a stonewall. They could still hear Sullivan shouting in the distance, only now a second voice had joined in as well.

"Sounds like Gamble finally woke up."

"Good. They can keep each other company." He'd taken out his phone and was flagging their location on the map. "This should be far enough. We'll stow their gear here."

"How far do we have to go?" Maggie asked as she dumped the collection of items they'd taken off the men.

"About two miles," John replied, leaning the two crossbows against a tree. He hated to part with such nice weapons, but they were technically evidence.

"Can you make it?"

"Let's see," he said, and led the way into the night.


	10. Chapter 10

John was struggling. The dregs of adrenaline that had kept him going to this point were all but gone; every step was becoming a chore. They had been on the move for nearly an hour, save for the frequent breaks he needed to catch his breath. He had no idea how far they'd gone; his ability to perceive distance had been compromised by the darkness. Not that it mattered. Resolve would keep him going until they either reached the road or his body gave out beneath him.

"Oh wow! Three raccoons up in a tree!" Maggie exclaimed from up ahead.

He had set her up with the night vision goggles when the narrow pathways between the trees had become too difficult to see. She'd wanted him to wear them, but he'd insisted it on it being her. Accustomed to working in the dark, he also didn't want the added weight or distraction the goggles would bring.

"This night vision thing is great. I'm so going to have to get a pair…"

Aside from Maggie's occasional exclamations or alerts to obstacles in their path, they had traveled primarily in silence. He figured she was either out of stories or too captivated by the goggles to carry on much of a conversation. Either way he welcomed the quiet. Between his clouded mind and shortness of breath, simultaneous walking and talking was definitely out of the question.

The ex-op knew he was in trouble. The injury alone wasn't fatal – he would have bled out long ago if the bolt had struck something vital. It was the significant blood loss that had him concerned. Even if Harold had managed to arrange some sort of emergency care, the chance remained that it would come too late. Too little blood meant too little oxygen circulating in the body. Starved organs begin to fail, and once started, the process was often impossible to reverse.

His own mortality was something he considered often. Never in the heat of battle, but during the rare quiet moment or while lying in bed, waiting for sleep to come. There had been times in his life when he would have welcomed death – times of profound hardship, failure, or struggle. Harold had found him during one of these times, and convinced him of a greater purpose than the one he had already served. Working with the hacker had allowed him to find true happiness for the first time in years. The thought he could lose it all now to a fool's lucky shot was inconceivable.

"There's a low branch here – watch your head."

Maggie's voice pulled him back to the present. There was just enough moonlight filtering in through the trees for him to make out a large limb hanging in their path. Normally such an obstacle would hardly be seen as problematic. In his current state, however, even something as simple as stooping down was an unpleasant task. "Is there a way around it?" he said, feeling foolish for having to ask.

"Only if you want to go through something that looks suspiciously like poison sumac," she replied, starting under the limb herself. "And that's something I don't recommend."

John sighed. Apparently catching a break even this late in the game was too much to ask. His side complaining fervently, he ducked down and pushed his way blindly through the tangle of leaves. Halfway through, he felt a hand grab his arm and guide him the rest of the way. "Thanks."

"No problem," she said, plucking an errant leaf from his hair. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah," he replied with little conviction.

Aided by the night vision goggles, she could clearly see the pain lines etched on his face. "Come on. You set the pace and I'll follow you."

With an extraordinary amount of effort, John got himself moving again. As Maggie fell into step beside him, he could sense her watching him almost as much as she was watching the trail. They'd scarcely gone a hundred yards when he felt his blood pressure sharply plunge. Overwhelmed by dizziness, he staggered several steps before his knees weakened and gave out, dropping him to the ground.

Nauseous, shaking, and doused in a cold sweat, John closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the world from spinning. It was the crash he'd been both expecting and dreading. Shock had finally caught up with him, and it was showing no mercy. His failing body was now calling the shots; even with his specialized training, he was helpless to influence it otherwise. All he could do was hang on and hope the damage wasn't too great.

"John?" Still startled by his sudden collapse, Maggie knelt down and put her hand on his back. He was breathing rapidly, and she could feel his heart beating at an alarming rate. "John – is there anything I can do?"

He shook his head, unable to summon the energy needed to speak. He was vaguely aware of her sitting down beside him and drawing him in to lean against her. It was a simple gesture of comfort and support, and one that he genuinely appreciated. Too sick to care about being caught in the arms of a married woman, he allowed himself to drift just enough to escape the worst of the pain emanating from his side.

Maggie felt John relax a little as she pulled him against her. Despite the warm night, the poor man was shivering, the effects of blood loss having caused his temperature to drop. She adjusted his jacket and rubbed his arms to try and generate extra heat. Not for the first time, she wished the horses were still with them. They would have spared John the stress of walking and their body-warmed wool saddle blankets would have been a bonus.

Moving carefully so as not disturb him, she settled into a more comfortable position. There was no telling how long it would take Harold to reach them, but she hoped it would be soon. The last thing she wanted was to have the man who had come to save her die in her arms so close to rescue.

Maggie sighed. She was still trying to comprehend everything that had happened over the last eight hours. She'd known all along that Alexis and Mark wanted the farm, but she never thought they would kill for it. She also questioned how John and Harold had known about their plans before she did. And why had they chosen to save her? Certainly there were other people in trouble that were more deserving of their attention. She wasn't ungrateful John had saved her life, but she couldn't stop wondering why either.

Her mind drifted back to the horses. She'd been so caught up in the events of the last few hours that she'd failed to keep regular tabs on their progress. Turning off the night vision goggles, Maggie reached into her pocket and withdrew her phone. She was waiting for it to start up when she saw something flash in the distance. At first she thought it was just her eyes readjusting from wearing the goggles, but then it happened again. When the flash appeared for the third time, it split into two steady, white beams. They were flashlights.

Maggie gasped. "John?" she uttered, afraid she would be heard. "John? Someone's coming."

John roused from his doze, disturbed by how easily he had drifted so deep. "Huh?"

"Someone's coming," she repeated. "I can see their lights up ahead."

His awareness ratcheted up several notches at this. His desire to protect Maggie from harm remained, but no surge of adrenaline came to propel him to his feet or send him headlong into a fight. His body was literally spent; even the prospect of endangering a Number couldn't get him moving again.

He knew the chance was good that the lights were coming from Harold and Lionel making their way in from the road. But there was also a chance that their pursuers had escaped and were coming back for another try. If it was Gamble and Sullivan, John knew his only option would be to shoot them. He had no qualms about taking the men out, but it would most certainly jeopardize a successful murder conviction against Maggie's siblings.

Stifling a groan, he sat up in preparation to defend himself and Maggie one final time. His hand was halfway to his gun when his earwig clicked on.

 _"Mr. Reese – are you there?"_

* * *

Harold frowned as he fumbled with the various items he was trying to hold. The blanket, flashlight, and leash all interfered with his ability to operate the phone he was using to navigate the dark forest.

Lionel chuckled at the hacker's antics. "Didn't I say you were bringing too much? Maybe you should have brought another set of hands too."

"Good idea," Harold replied, and stuffed Bear's leash into the detective's free hand.

"Hey, how come I get the dog?"

"You're my extra set of hands." Harold tossed the blanket over his shoulder and tucked the flashlight under his arm. With one less item to worry about, he was better able to work the GPS program on his phone.

"I don't like it out here. It's too dark and quiet," Lionel groused.

"Would you rather be in a close quarter shootout with an inebriated gunman?"

"No. I'd rather be home watching the game in my underwear."

"Now that's a disturbing image. Do you expose your son to such appalling sights on a regular basis, Detective? "

"Very funny."

The two men and dog walked along in silence, their bright lights cutting a wide swath through the darkness. Out to the limits of his leash, Bear led the way, his nose actively searching the unfamiliar environment for scents of interest. As they picked their way around bushes and over fallen trees, they remained alert for signs of danger or clues that John and Maggie were nearby.

Harold's GPS was getting spotty signals. Just when he thought he had a lock on their position, the program would pause, recalculate, and report a new location. The variation from place to place wasn't much – all of the points fell within a half mile of one another – but to a city dweller out of his element, any misdirection in the dark woods was disconcerting. Not to mention the valuable time it was wasting.

"Is your boy jumpy?"

"He's never shown a penchant to be. Why?"

"Don't get me wrong: I have great respect for Wonder Boy's marksmanship, but I'd rather not get kneecapped if he hears us trampling around and starts shooting."

Harold seriously doubted John would fire blindly at a sound he didn't know the origin of, but if the effects of blood loss had distorted his mental state, anything was possible. He minimized the GPS program and dialed his partner's number.

"Mr. Reese – are you there?"

 _"Finch – please tell me the lights I'm looking at are you and Fusco."_

"We are in the vicinity, John. Please refrain from shooting at us."

 _"No danger of that, Harold."_ His voice had a tired, breathless quality that the hacker didn't like. He chided himself for not getting to the man sooner.

"I'm afraid the GPS program is being a bit vague in this location. It may take us several minutes to pin point your exact position."

 _"Is Bear with you?"_

"Yes, of course, why?"

 _"Follow him."_

A sharp whistle pierced the darkness off to their left. Bear froze, his head, ears, and tail going erect with attention.

"Bear, zoeken!" Harold said, giving the dog the command to seek.

With an anxious whine, Bear lunged forward in the direction of his master's whistle, dragging Lionel along behind him.

"Whoa! Hey! Take it easy, you oversized hairball!"

Over logs, through bushes, and between narrowly spaced trees, Bear wasted no time locating John and Maggie in the dark. After giving the strange woman a cursory sniff, he turned back to his owner and eagerly licked his face.

"Hey, Bear," John uttered, petting the Malinois with badly shaking hands.

"You certainly don't make yourself easy to find. How about next time you go gallivanting in the woods, you…oh, wow…" Lionel's rant ended abruptly when his light allowed him to see John for the first time. Pale, sweating, and visibly laboring for breath, it was a shock to see the normally composed man appear so poorly. "You look terrible."

"Eloquent as ever, Fusco."

"He collapsed about twenty minutes ago," Maggie told Harold as he limped over to join them. "I wanted to do something to help him, but…"

"Unfortunately there's not much anyone can do for him right now, Mrs. Barton. Outside of a trauma center, anyway." Harold wrapped the blanket around his friend's shoulders and knelt stiffly beside him. "How bad are you, John?"

"I might be short a pint – or three."

"The bleeding got worse ever since we took the bolt out. I packed and wrapped the wound like you said, but it just wouldn't stop."

Lionel watched as the hacker pushed aside John's shirt to inspect the integrity of the blood soaked bandage. "Looks like you did a good job, kid."

Harold pulled another rolled bandage from his pocket. "The detective's correct. The stress of walking is what likely caused the continued bleeding, not your ministrations. This is going to hurt, Mr. Reese," he warned, and began to wrap the new bandage tightly over the old one.

John winced as the pressure increased around his side. "You'll find Sullivan and Gamble about a mile and a half back. Maggie can take you to them and their weapons."

"Let's get you back to the car first so Glasses can find you a doctor."

"Can you walk, John?" Harold asked.

"I don't know."

Lionel passed his flashlight and Bear's leash off to Maggie. "You're gonna owe me for this, Superman," he said, bending down and taking John's right arm across his shoulders. "The last thing I thought I was going to have to do today was carry your sorry ass out of the woods."

"I'll try to remember to check your schedule next time I plan to get shot." John grunted as the detective hauled him to his feet. He made an honest attempt to stand on his own, but his legs refused to hold his weight. Dizzy and exhausted, he sagged heavily against the larger man.

"Easy, John. Try not to over extend yourself if you can help it," Harold said as he eased his friend's left arm across his shoulders. He wouldn't be able to take as much of his friend's weight as Lionel, but he knew every little bit helped. He turned to Maggie, who was absently petting Bear's head. "Bear can lead the way, but would you be willing to light it, Mrs. Barton?"

"Of course."

At the sound of his name, the dog's attention had shifted from having his ears rubbed to Harold.

"Bear, vind de auto." (Find the car)

At his co-owner's command, Bear rose and confidently led his humans into the dark.

* * *

For John, the walk up to the access road was grueling. He helped when he could, but he tired quickly and had to rely on his friends to drag him along. He could tell his blood pressure was hovering dangerously low. Dizzy, nauseous, and in considerable pain, it took most of his energy just to stay conscious. Even then his best efforts weren't enough, and he knew he'd blacked out on several occasions.

The group made the mile long journey in relative silence. It was hard work and slow going; the unspoken worries about John weighing heavily on everyone's mind. Even Bear seemed concerned, pausing more than once to look over his shoulder and whine. On a stroke of ingenuity, Maggie had donned the night vision goggles again and turned the flashlight backwards to allow the men to clearly see where they were putting their feet.

The cars came into view nearly an hour later. Leaving John with Lionel, the hacker quickly unlocked his vehicle and threw open the backdoors.

"All right, Detective. Bring him over." Together they carefully maneuvered the barely conscious man around to first sit and then lie down on the backseat. It was a challenge getting a person of John's height to fit horizontally on the bench seat and they tried their best to get him comfortably situated. "Mr. Reese? John? Can you hear me?"

With more effort then he ever remembered it taking, John opened his eyes to see who was yelling so rudely in his ear. "Finch?"

"It's me. We're at the car. How are you doing?"

"Tired."

"I imagine you're quite exhausted by now." Harold accepted the blanket from Lionel and tucked it around John's shuddering form. "I realize you're a bit cramped lying back here, but it will help stabilize your blood pressure. Besides, we haven't far to go."

"Yeah, and you'd better hang on," Lionel warned. "I think your buddy here has been moonlighting as an off-road racer."

The detective's comment barely registered with John. He closed his eyes and began to slowly sink toward the pain free world of oblivion. He knew he shouldn't fall asleep. Doing so meant taking the risk that he may never wake up again. He didn't want to die, but he was so tired. Surely a short nap wouldn't hurt anything.

Harold noticed a subtle change in his friend's demeanor. He reached down and pressed two fingers against his throat, finding a very faint, rapid pulse. Although his medical knowledge was limited, he knew enough to know the other man's time was running out. It was time to leave. "Stay with me, John," he uttered, and closed the door.

"Is he going to make it?" Maggie asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"I certainly hope so. John's a resilient man, but…" he stopped and shook his head, unable to bring himself to say it aloud. "Thank you for all that you've done for him. I know today hasn't been easy."

"John saved my life. How do you repay someone for that?"

"You take your second chance and live it even more fully than the first. For you, it starts with making sure the people responsible for your years of hardship are punished. Show Detective Fusco where you left Mr. Sullivan and Gamble. Take Bear with you in case they decide to give you trouble. When the men are secure, the detective can give you a lift home."

"But Alexis and Mark…"

"Have been taken into custody," Lionel said. "I spoke with my partner who's been monitoring the farm since this afternoon. They've both been arrested on charges of conspiracy and murder."

"Murder?" Maggie echoed. "But I'm all right. Sullivan and Gamble weren't successful."

The two men looked to one another, silently asking if and how much they should tell.

"There's a lot we need to discuss," the detective said at last. "Let's walk and talk."

"Be careful," Harold said, closing his door and starting the engine.

Both Lionel and Maggie watched as the car drove away, its taillights fading through the trees before vanishing completely. Bear whined and shifted uneasily at the end of his leash.

The detective was about to suggest they get moving when Maggie spoke.

"Alexis and Mark killed Mom and Dad, didn't they?"

"You knew?" he asked, surprised by her question and the calmness in which she asked it.

"I suspected. It was the way their behavior changed after mom died and again when dad was sick. I suppose denial and fear kept me from pursuing my suspicions. Plus they left me alone after their court case was dismissed. At least until now."

"They won't get away with what they did, Maggie," Lionel said. "To you and your parents. We've got people who can make those two bozos they sent after you talk. We'll get a conviction and make it stick. They won't be a threat to you or your farm anymore."

Maggie nodded and swallowed past the lump that was building in her throat. It was good to hear that someone finally felt the same way she did about her siblings, and could see them for who they really were. She could only hope the detective was speaking the truth and not just saying what he thought she wanted to hear. "Thank you."

"You bet. Now let's get going before the coyotes start to chew on those two nimrods."


	11. Chapter 11

Loud, thrumming music and boisterous voices permeated the heavy stonewalls and leaked into the streets. The nightclub was in full swing and its patrons were enjoying themselves to the fullest. The ruckus briefly intensified as a door swung open and a person stepped out into the dark alley.

Steve Maxwell leaned against the building and scrubbed his hands across his face. Despite the plugs he wore, his ears were still ringing from the volume of the evening's live entertainment and the enthusiasm of the crowd. His head hurt, making him irritable. It was going to be a long shift.

It was the same thing every night. Working as a bouncer for an upscale nightclub had lost its charm less than a week after he'd taken the job. He'd been escorting an intoxicated patron off the property when the guy threw a wild punch and managed to crack his eye socket in two places. Nearly five years and half a dozen broken bones later, he found himself regularly questioning his sanity for staying onboard.

A bar bouncer wasn't his only form of employment. Most days he worked as a courier for a small contractor near the city. The hours were long and the work often dangerous, especially when he took the bike out onto the busy streets. Between the two jobs, he just managed to keep up with his debt of various loans, alimony, and the rent for a small apartment he barely saw. The heavy workload also served to keep his mind busy and away from the depressing thoughts about what his life could and should have been.

Steve jumped when he heard a bottle crash and shatter against the closed back door. There was a rough crowd in the house tonight, and the large quantities of alcohol they were consuming wouldn't help make them more complacent. If he was lucky, he would only have to call the cops once or twice. If things went as they usually did when this particular band was in town, he'd be on first name basis with the dispatcher before midnight.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a battered book of matches. Shaking the pack, he flipped one of the blunts between his lips and returned the rest to his pocket. It was a bad habit, and one he didn't partake in very often, but on stressful nights, his fortitude needed all the help it could. Plucking the final match from the book, he struck it against the wall behind him. He was just about to touch the flame to the tip of the cigarette when a large vehicle began to back into the narrow alleyway.

"What the hell?" he muttered, tucking the unlit smoke behind his ear. Although the warning lights weren't on, Steve recognized what the vehicle was by its squat, boxy shape. It was an ambulance, its reflective decals identifying it as a private rig for "Gosling Medical" – a transport company he had never heard of before.

The rig stopped and the driver – a man with a pronounced limp – stepped out of the cab.

"Hey, you can't park that thing here. There's a twenty-four hour lot about three blocks from here that…"

"Mr. Stephen Maxwell?" the driver asked, coming around to the back of the rig. Rather than the typical paramedic uniform, he was dressed in a three-piece suit, complete with a pocket square. "Or do you prefer Dr. Maxwell?"

Steve drew his head back in surprise. "I'm sorry. You must have me mistaken with someone else. You really can't park that here. It's a fire lane. It needs to stay…"

"I don't have time to discuss zoning regulations, Dr. Maxwell. I'm in need of your services, or should I say an associate of mine is," Harold said, pulling open the back doors of the rig.

"Look, buddy, I don't know how else to say this, but I'm not…" As the driver climbed into the rescue, Steve got his first look in the back. There was a person on the gurney, buried beneath a pile of blankets. They weren't moving.

"Quickly, Doctor, please."

Exasperated, Steve pulled himself up into the back of the rig. He was welcomed by the pungent smell of blood and loud hiss of oxygen leaking from around the mask fastened to the man on the gurney's face. On basic observation alone, he could tell the guy was in trouble. The strong odor of blood, his colorless face, and shallow, rapid breathing all spoke of a person firmly gripped by shock. Before he could stop himself, he reached down and adjusted the mask with practiced ease.

"He was struck by a crossbow bolt approximately eight hours ago." Harold felt encouraged to see the doctor taking an interest in John despite his denial of identity. "He was unable to seek immediate medical attention and has subsequently lost a significant amount of blood."

"He needs a hospital."

"I agree. Unfortunately our unique circumstances largely preclude us from using them. This is why I brought him to you, Doctor."

"I haven't practiced medicine in five years."

"But your license is still in good standing. And you're noted to be one of the best trauma specialists in the region."

"I _was_ one of the best. My own unique circumstances necessitated my resignation."

"Yes, I read about the mistake."

Steve snorted. "Mistake? I killed a man by giving him blood that was the wrong type."

"It wasn't your fault. You were relying on the information from the lab. The woman who actually made the mistake was never disciplined for her sloppy work because she was the daughter of a high-ranking state official. The whole story came out during the last election thanks to an inquisitive journalist with a nose for scandal. By then it was too late – you had already given your notice."

"I had no choice. No one trusted me after that – patients or colleagues. It's one thing to lose a patient to their injuries, but to have caused it by your own hand…" Steve stopped and sighed. "I tried to go back after the story broke. No one would hire me. My wife even left me because of it. She said I embarrassed her."

"Your reputation was tarnished. On such occasions, you often discover who your real friends are," Harold said. "I can help you get your job back. Not here in the city, but elsewhere where your name isn't known."

"I can't get a position in my field anywhere. The Board never listed the outcome of the investigation as accidental by third party misinformation. As far as anyone's concerned, I'm still at fault."

"I can change that."

Steve gave him a skeptical look. "How? You work for the Medial Board?"

"No. But I have the means to fix it."

"And then what?"

"Then you'll be free to go wherever you please to start your life anew."

"I can't afford to go anywhere. Even working two dead end jobs, I have student loans up to my eyeballs, alimony, car payments…"

Harold reached under the gurney and produced a duffle bag. "There's enough here to pay off your remaining student loans and help you relocate," he said, pulling the bag open to reveal the bundles of money. "All I ask is that you save my friend."

Astonished, Steve looked from the money to John and back to the money. "I don't…"

"Please, Doctor. If you won't do this, than let me know so I can try to find someone who will."

"I can't guarantee his survival. He's showing signs of advanced-stage hypovolemic shock…"

"Then at least try," Harold said, unable to keep the desperation from his voice any longer.

"He needs blood. Anything I do will be pointless if he doesn't get a transfusion…"

Again the hacker reached under the gurney, this time producing an insolated box packed with half a dozen bags of cooled blood. "And it is the correct type. I double checked them myself."

"How did you get the blood? Where did you get the ambulance? How did you find _me_?"

"Believe me, Doctor, the less you know about certain things, the easier this will be."

Steve was overwhelmed. Not ten minutes ago, he'd been brooding over his miserable, ruined life. Now a complete stranger was offering him a second chance and the means to remedy what had been callously taken away from him. _Is this for real? Do I trust him? Can I trust him? He seems legit. What did he mean by 'unique circumstances'? Are they dangerous?_

Questions raced through his head with dizzying speed. To help meant trusting a total stranger with what little remained of his reputation. To walk away would most certainly condemn the man on the gurney to death. Steve knew he couldn't let that happen. He may not have been actively practicing medicine, but he was still a doctor. Failure to provide care when and where it was needed went against his moral and professional values.

"I'll do it," he heard himself saying. "I can't make you any promises, but I'll do my best to help your friend."

"Thank you," Harold replied, relief evident on his face. "I understand the stakes are high. Whatever the outcome, my offer still stands."

Steve nodded and took a deep breath, making the mental shift from bar bouncer to doctor. "I'm going to need some help."

"I've arranged for someone to join us momentarily. In the meantime, I'll help where I can as soon as I relocate the ambulance to someplace less conspicuous." He turned to exit the rescue.

"I wouldn't go far," Steve called after him. "Your friend is critical; even the motion of the rig could cause him stress and crash."

"There's a closed gas station about three blocks from here. Is that too far?"

"No – that should be fine. Just drive extra careful."

Harold looked past Steve to his unconscious friend. "You better believe I will," he said, shutting the doors and leaving John in what he hoped were capable hands.

* * *

Harold struggled to keep his hands from shaking as he used a pair of scissors to cut away John's jacket and shirt. The last thing he wanted to do was slip and injure his friend further. Per Steve's instructions, he left the bandage in place to keep any clotting intact.

During the short time it'd taken to relocate the ambulance, the doctor had familiarized himself with the rig's layout and started connecting John to the onboard monitoring system. His heart rate was too fast, and his blood pressure, oxygen levels, and temperature were all too low. Added to his clammy skin, bluing nail beds, and nonexistent capillary refill, the man had a textbook case of hypovolemic shock. He'd lost too much blood and his body was methodically shutting itself down to preserve life as long as possible.

Steve ran a manual check of John's vital signs to verify the accuracy of the equipment. "Go ahead and grab one of those units of blood," he said, bringing the blankets back over his patient. "Hold it between your hands and knead it gently. It needs to be warmed and mixed before we can give it to him."

Harold reached into the cooler and withdrew one of the small bags. He wasn't particularly fond of the sight of blood, but he was willing to endure such discomfort for John's sake. To keep his mind off the dark red substance in the bag, he looked up at his friend. He hadn't made a sound since the difficult transfer from the car to the ambulance, and the hacker was worried that he'd given the last of his strength in the process.

His attention snapped back to Steve when he heard him curse softly under his breath. "Is something wrong, Doctor?"

"His veins are collapsed," Steve replied. He had John's right arm hanging over the edge of the gurney. Using his thumb, he explored through the muscles and tendons, searching for a vein that was suitable for an IV. He used to be able to do such difficult insertions with his eyes closed, but five years out of practice had diluted his confidence. Now he was just wasting time.

Abandoning hopes for an arm placement, he went to John's head and lifted his chin to expose his neck. The external jugular vein was easier to locate and well suited to take on the large quantities of fluids the man was going to need. Finding the vein in decent condition, he cleaned the area with alcohol and prepared to make the stick.

Harold looked away a moment too late to miss seeing the needle pierce his partner's neck. He knew John didn't feel it, but it was still disturbing to watch. Nauseous and lightheaded, he drew in several deep gulps of air to settle his nerves.

"If you're going to puke, do it out the back," Steve said without a trace of sympathy in his voice. "I don't want to smell it or slip in it."

Startled by the bluntness of the doctor's words, Harold felt his queasiness dissipate. "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting…" He flapped his hand toward the catheter Steve was securing to his friend's neck with tape. "…That."

"Things are only going to get uglier as we go along, especially once that bandage comes off. If you can't handle this…"

"No, no, I can," Harold assured him. "I've helped with surgical procedures in the past, although I believe the person meeting us will be better suited to assisting you in this particular situation. I think caring about the person whose blood is on my hands is weakening my resolve."

 _No kidding…_ Steve thought. He had to give the man some credit for admitting his weakness though. Most would try to hide it then make things worse by panicking, passing out, or both. "How's the blood doing?" He took the bag and inspected its contents for consistency and temperature. Satisfied, he began connecting it to the tubing he'd installed on the catheter. "Once this starts running, we'll have to watch him. Even though the type matches, he can still have a reaction."

Harold recalled John's last transfusion. It had been done at the city morgue by a coroner after Joss unwittingly led him into the crosshairs of Agent Snow. Except for a slight rise in temperature, he'd handled the process well. He feared this time would be different, though. John was further gone, his condition dire. If he could have gotten to him sooner, spared him the stress of the long walk or even prevented the confrontation with the men, he might have had more confidence in him pulling through.

Steve finished with the connections and hung the bag from a hook on the ceiling. "Here we go," he said, and opened the valve to release the blood.

As a gesture of encouragement and comfort, Harold placed his hand on John's shoulder. "Hang on, Mr. Reese." To his surprise, he felt the man move. "John?" His eyes slowly opened. They were so glassy and unfocused, Harold wondered if he could actually see anything or not. "Dr. Maxwell?"

Steve glanced up from the supply drawer he was going through. "That's rather unusual," he said, just as surprised as Harold to see John awake. He called his name and snapped his fingers in front of his face, but got no response. "No – he's still out. It's probably just a response to…"

"Finch?" John's voice was so quiet, it was nearly lost in the hiss of oxygen.

"I'm here, John."

"Finch, I want…want to…" Talking was an effort, the constant need to breathe making it difficult to get the words out.

"Save your strength, John. Please."

"I want to…say…"

A cold, heavy weight settled in Harold's stomach when he realized what his friend was trying to say. "Mr. Reese," he said, adopting as firm of a tone as his rattled nerves would permit. "If you plan to thank me or apologize, don't. I won't accept either one. You're going to make it through this. We still need you out there, John. I still need you. I know it's not an easy fight, but you have to try."

John's eyes cleared for a moment and squarely met his boss's gaze before rolling back and shutting. One of the machines monitoring his condition sounded its indifferent, monotone warning.

"John?"

"His blood pressure's dropping." Steve quickly clamped off the transfusion flow and reached for a syringe on the counter behind him.

"What's that?" Harold asked as he watched him push the contents through his friend's IV.

"Norepinephrine. It'll give his heart a boost and hopefully raise his blood pressure." When the numbers displayed by the monitors reached a satisfactory level, the doctor released the lock on the blood drip and allowed it to start up again at a slower rate. "We'll try that. Sometimes slower is better in cases this bad. I'm going to try set another line before I take a look at his wound."

Harold reached beneath the blankets and took John's disturbingly cold hand. His own was shaking, not from nerves this time, but emotion. He was again reminded of the incident with Agent Snow. John, bleeding heavily from two bullet wounds, had thanked him for the second chance he'd given him. He'd known he was dying; it was only by luck Harold had gotten him the help he needed in time. John had tried to thank him tonight. It wasn't an encouraging sign.

Steve was just connecting the second IV to a bag of clear fluids when another warning tone sounded.

"What's that one for?" Harold demanded, both alarmed and agitated by the machine's cry.

"His O2 Sat level is inadequate. His blood isn't oxygenating properly," Steve replied, turning back to the bank of supply cabinets. "How are you at multitasking?"

"Quite proficient, why?"

"Because I'm going to need you to monitor a whole bunch of things and help keep him ventilated at the same time."

"But…what…?"

Steve dumped several items into the hacker's arms. "Scope, tube, tape, and bag," he said, pointing to each item in turn. "Pass them to me when I ask." He stepped in behind John's head and pulled the oxygen mask from his face. "Scope."

Harold passed him what looked like a small, metallic scythe with a dull, wide blade. He watched as the doctor tilted John's head back, opened his mouth, and guided the blade down his throat.

"Tube."

Having learned his lesson the first time, Harold adverted his eyes as he handed it over, not wanting to witness it being slid into his friend's windpipe.

"Tape." Steve tore several lengths from the roll of cloth tape and used them to anchor the breathing tube in place. "Bag." Joining the regulator valve and oxygen line to the free end of the tube, he gave the self-inflating, football-sized bag a couple of short compressions. "Come here."

In a worried daze, Harold joined the doctor at his partner's head.

"Like this," Steve instructed, showing him how to properly work the translucent blue bag. "He's still trying to breathe on his own, but his efforts are falling short. Watch for the rise of his chest. You want to deepen his inhalations and release the bag when he exhales. If his rate slows, go ahead and give him a full breath." Pulling on a stethoscope, he took a moment to listen to John's breathing and evaluate the placement of the tube. "All right. That sounds about as good as we're going to get for now."

Harold's expression was one of dismay. "He's getting worse." It wasn't a question.

"His condition is critical and he's already showing signs of stress from the transfusion. Until we get the bleeding stopped and his blood level replenished, he's going to continue to deteriorate. And even then…" Steve shrugged to indicate there was no guarantee.

"I know his prognosis is poor, Doctor, but I still believe taking even the slightest chance is better than an opportunity missed."

A knock at the rig's back doors startled both men.

"Finch?" A familiar voice called from the other side.

"Come in, Detective."

"Detective?!"

"It's all right, Doctor, she's one of us," Harold replied.

Steve snorted. _And I suppose by 'one of us' he means the 'the less you know, the better' crowd..._

"I came as soon as I could get away from the farm. There were a lot of statements to process and Maggie had to be…oh my…" Joss froze when her eyes fell on John for the first time. The smell of blood, his near gray complexion, and the sight of Harold deftly working the Ambu-Bag all told her everything she needed to know. "Is he…?"

"Hanging on by the grace of God. Detective Carter, this is Dr. Stephen Maxwell," Harold said, keeping the introductions brief. "He's graciously agreed to help patch John up."

 _I think he's going to need more than a patch…_ "Fusco said he was serious, but I wasn't expecting…" She stopped and shook her head despondently. "What can I do to help?"

"What division are you, Detective?" Steve asked.

"Homicide."

"Excellent. I'm going to have you assist me in cleaning and stitching his wound. Is that something you're comfortable doing?"

Joss looked over at John. She had spent countless hours trying to put 'The Man in a Suit' behind bars. If anyone had told her she would wind up partnering with and befriending him instead, she would have dismissed them as crazy. Now, however, she couldn't imagine it having turned out any other way. "Comfortable with – no – but I'll do it."

"Good enough. Harold, I'm going to keep you at his head to continue ventilating and monitoring his condition. I need to know the instant anything changes or if it looks like he's waking up again."

Joss's eyebrows rose. "Waking up – seriously?"

"He woke briefly just before he sharply declined," Harold explained. "He wasn't overly cognizant, but he was aware of his situation."

"I'd rather not have to sedate him right now. It could trigger him to shut down completely." He pointed at the monitor display. "This shows you his heart and respiration rates, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation level. If any of these numbers start to change up or down, I need to know. Keep a close eye on him too. Sometimes you'll see a subtle change even before the machines pick it up. Got it?"

"I do."

"Good." Steve returned to John's side and tossed Joss several iodine wipes and a package of gloves. "Scrub up, then glove up. We're a far cry from a surgically sterile environment, but we need to get as close as we can."

"How are you holding up, Finch?" Joss asked as she began scrubbing her hands with the strong smelling wipes.

"Would you believe poorly?" He looked down at John. His lips had lost the bluish tint they'd had before Steve put the breathing tube in, but Harold knew the change was superficial. "I thought I was better at keeping myself together than this, but apparently not."

"It's hard to remain detached when it's one of your own," she said. "At least for me it is."

"I'm grateful that you came, Detective. John's chances aren't good, but with you here, I think it betters his odds."

"I know it makes my job easier," Steve said, passing the tray of items he'd assembled for the procedure to Joss. "A spare set of hands that aren't squeamish definitely improves the odds of a successful surgery."

 _No pressure there…_ Joss thought, hoping her nerve and stomach would continue to hold strong.

The doctor moved the blankets away from John's side and selected a pair of scissors from the tray. "This is liable to get ugly," he warned as he started to cut through the blood-stiffened bandage. "If either of you start to feel sick or lightheaded, speak up. There's no shame in needing to step away for a minute or two."

Harold felt certain Steve was talking more to him than to Joss, especially after he'd almost passed out over a simple needle stick. Although he purposely kept his focus on John, he still saw the gory mess of clotted blood that pulled away with the bandage from the corner of his eye.

"This is a good wrap job," the doctor said as he removed the packing material from the wound. "Did you do it?"

"The young woman that was with John at the time did. I merely talked her through it," Harold replied.

"Well your instructions were spot on. I couldn't have done any better myself." With the bandage and roll cotton removed, he began to clean John's skin with an iodine sponge, the pressure causing dark, thickened blood to seep from the wound.

"That doesn't look good," Joss uttered.

"It's not," Steve replied, feeling what little optimism he'd had for the man's survival fade even more. He'd expected to see some free blood in his abdominal cavity, but not as much as this. _This is going to complicate things…_ "How long ago did you say this happened?"

"He was shot approximately eight hours ago. It's been about five hours since the bolt was removed," Harold said.

Steve was back at the supply cabinets, quickly gathering what he would need to use the rig's suction unit. "He should have left it in place."

"He couldn't. The bolt had a mechanical head and the second set of blades opened late. If he hadn't removed it, he would have bled to death the middle of the woods."

Hearing this, Joss closed her eyes; unable to fathom the amount of pain John must have been in to take such drastic measures.

The doctor drew in a deep breath to settle his own growing anxieties. He knew if John crashed, it would be fast, hard, and undoubtedly fatal. _Five years out of practice and I get handed a case that would have made me nervous in my heyday. This must be a chance at redemption or further punishment for what my life has become. Either way, it's going to be one hell of a bumpy ride…_

The machine tracking John's heartbeat emitted an arrhythmic tone before evening out and resuming its too fast rate.

"You need to watch him, Harold. I mean, really, _really_ watch him."

"You have my word, Doctor," the hacker assured him, not looking away from John even as he spoke.

"All right," Steve uttered, aware of the determined yet haunted expression that both Harold and Joss wore. "Let's give this a go."


	12. Chapter 12

Except for the sounds of tolling monitors, hissing oxygen, and the occasional clink of metal instruments, the back of the ambulance was silent. The only words spoken were requests for specific items and regular updates on John's condition. During his residency at the city hospital, Steve rarely had such quiet whenever he was in surgery. Back then he'd wanted noise – usually in the form of loud rock music. It was a habit he'd carried over from college when he used to study with his headphones cranked to full volume. It helped him to relax and focus, especially during the tense moments of high-risk cases.

Times had changed, however, and he now found himself welcoming the silence. Despite his earlier misgivings, the surgery was going well. He found he could still use a scalpel, needle, and suture just as well as he had five years ago when he'd last practiced. John had remained deeply unconscious the entire time, his vitals holding as steady as to be expected. He was already half way through his second unit of blood, and shown no ill effects since his initial drop in pressure.

Steve couldn't believe how lucky John had been. After draining and flushing the free blood from his abdominal cavity, he'd located half a dozen actively bleeding tears and stitched them closed. Given the location of the wound and the amount of blood lost, he was certain he'd find acute damage to the organs inside. Instead he found that the bolt had struck his ribcage and had its momentum significantly reduced before punching through. Two ribs had broken and a substantial amount of muscle and tissue had been severed, but the major organs were largely spared from the initial strike.

He believed it was when the mechanical head sprang open that the damage was done, the blades shallowly slicing into his stomach, left kidney, and large intestine. He also understood why John had made the decision to remove the bolt himself. Had he tried to move with it in the open position, he would have effectively shredded every organ within the blade's reach. It would have been a slow and very painful death. Given the precision and manner of the incisions, he had to wonder just how many times the man had needed to perform such operations in the past.

 _It's a damn good thing nothing ruptured…_ he thought, taking another length of suture material from the tray Joss was holding. _Free blood in the abdomen is one thing. Leaking gastric juices and intestinal contents are another._ He'd seen both frequently during his days as a surgeon, and the prognosis for the patient was rarely good. Not that John's was looking much better. Even if he survived the night, a long and potentially difficult road still lay ahead.

From his place at John's head, Harold continued to divide his attention between the display screen, the Ambu-Bag, and John himself. He tried to keep from looking down at what the doctor was doing, but the occasional muttered comment would draw his focus away. Seeing the blood on his gloves was usually enough of a reminder as to why Steve had put him at the head of the gurney, and chosen Joss to assist with the surgery.

There had been little change in John's condition since Steve began working. About the only difference he could see was a slight improvement to the man's pallid complexion. It had lost the waxy appearance of severe shock and regained a touch of its normal flesh tone. The numbers corresponding to his vital signs were still in the critical range, and his heart continued to give sporadic, arrhythmic beats.

He wasn't surprised by his friend's lack of improvement, but he was still discouraged by it. He had an analytical mind, and preferred to look at things in a logical way. John's condition had declined quickly, so part of him felt he should recover quickly too. He knew, however, that this was not the case. The human body didn't work like a machine. Repairing them wasn't as simple as plugging the hole, replenishing the fluids, and flipping a switch. Damaged, weakened organs needed to be coaxed back to life, assuming, of course, they could be salvaged at all.

Harold looked down and noticed a glaze of sweat had formed on John's forehead. He brushed it away using the underside of his wrist, gasping slightly when his skin made contact with his friend's face.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked without looking up from his work.

"He's warm," the hacker replied. "Not normal, mind you, but warmer than he was. He's perspiring quite badly again too." Joss handed him a piece of gauze from the tray. As he used it to blot John's face, he noticed a sight furrow in his brow that hadn't been there before. "Dr. Maxwell, I believe something may be amiss."

Steve finished tying off the stitch he was putting in and joined him at John's head. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure exactly. He appears to be – and this may sound odd given the circumstances –uncomfortable. Do you think he's reacting to the transfusion again?" Harold braced himself, certain the doctor would call his observations crazy.

Taking in all of the variables – especially the notable jump in John's blood pressure and heart rate – Steve shook his head. "No, but I do think he's starting to register pain again." He pulled off his dirty gloves and went to the cabinet were the drugs were stored.

"You mean he's waking up?"

"Not in a conscious sense, no. He's still essentially out, just not so deeply that he's numb to pain. I can fix that." He selected the vial he was searching for and measured a dose into a syringe.

"I thought you said sedating him was dangerous?" Joss asked.

"It is," he replied, injecting the drug through one of the IV lines. "But prolonged exposure to pain can be just as harmful." Almost immediately, the numbers on the screen began to fall.

"It's working," Harold muttered, watching as the pain lines eased from John's face.

"I gave him a minimal dose, but it still may depress his breathing efforts. You'll probably find that you need to help him out more. Are your hands cramping at all? Do you need a break?"

The hacker shook his head. "I'm fine."

Steve tore open several sanitizing wipes and began to scrub his hands. "I'm almost done. I have a few more rows of stitches and a drain to put in before closing him up." He glanced across the gurney to Joss, her face set in the practiced neutrality of a professional. "How are you holding up – okay?"

Joss nodded. "I'm just concerned about him, that's all."

"I've seen people survive worse and succumb to less," he said, pulling on a new pair of gloves and settling back in to work. "I wish I could tell you that he's going to come through this, but there are so many factors involved. He's made it this far. That tells me his mind and body are strong. That at least gives him a fighting chance."

"And that's all we're asking for," Harold said quietly, speaking more to himself than the others.

The back of the rig fell silent again as Steve resumed his work. He'd lost count of just how many internal stitches he'd put in; it was well over a hundred, and probably closer to two. The bolt's mechanical head had sliced as efficiently as a knife wielded by a cruel butcher. He didn't have all the details surrounding the incident, but he knew John had needed to travel quite a distance to receive help. Given the amount of damage that had been done, it would have been an impossible journey for most. He had no doubt the man would be incredibly sore until the broken bones knit and the cut muscles and tissues healed.

When he was happy with his repair job, the doctor placed a length of surgical tubing into the depths of the wound to allow for drainage. A few stitches tacked it in place, and surgical staples closed everything up. The results weren't pretty, but if it stopped the bleeding and minimized the risk of infection, then he'd done his job well. He cleaned as much of the dried blood and iodine from John's skin as possible, and covered the entire wound with a heavy dressing.

"And I think we're done," Steve said, snapping off his gloves and taking the supply tray from Joss. "Thank you both. You were a great help."

"You're the one who should be thanked, Doctor," Harold said. "You took a risk and gave John a second chance."

"Don't thank me yet," Steve replied, exchanging the nearly empty bag of IV fluids for a full one. "He came through the surgery, but that doesn't mean things are going to get easier for him. The risk of infection for injuries like this is very high. There's a chance I missed a pocket of bleeding or a new one could form as a result of the stitches. The bolt didn't perforate any of his organs, but he spent a substantial amount of time in shock. That put his liver, kidneys, heart, and even his brain at greater risk for damage. He also still needs several more units of blood, and the transfusion itself carries its own unique set of risks."

Silence returned. Both Harold and Joss wore unreadable expressions as they processed what they'd just been told. The news wasn't unexpected, but it still dealt a low blow to their already diminished feelings of optimism.

"I don't mean to put a damper on your hopes," he continued. "But I want you to see things realistically. I'm not saying he doesn't have a chance, it's just less of one than I think any of us would like to see."

"It's a chance he wouldn't have without you," Harold said, not willing to let the doctor undermine his efforts. "Is John stable enough to transport?"

Steve looked at the numbers on the monitor. "Not really, but I suppose we can't stay parked beside a defunct gas station for very long before people start asking questions."

"You're not planning on taking him back to the city are you?" Joss asked.

"No. I've made arrangements for a place about an hour south of here. It's quiet and out of the way."

"I was hoping you'd reconsidered taking him to the hospital."

"Unfortunately, there's nothing to reconsider. It's a risk we can't take in our situation."

"Your friend's life isn't worth the risk?" Steve pushed. "The risk of what – being caught, discovered, exposed? What kind of secret is so important that you're not willing to get him the care he needs?"

"He needs time."

"He _needs_ an ICU. He _needs_ to be in an environment where highly trained professionals can watch him around the clock and respond immediately if one of the aforementioned complications arises. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"Doctor, we've been over this," Harold said, his tone clipped but patient. "The less you know…"

"Right, right. The easier it'll be. I get it." Steve rubbed his forehead and looked over at Joss. "Do you get this cryptic crap from him too?"

She smiled. "All the time."

"I know this is difficult for you, Doctor, and it is for me too," Harold said. "I'd like very much to take John to a hospital where his chances would be greater, but I can't. I believe you'd find the accommodations I've made to be adequate and had hoped to convince you to accompany us to continue his care. If it's not something you're willing to do, however, I understand. You're welcome to take your payment as promised and leave at any time."

Steve frowned. For an eccentric, scholarly type, Harold was a smooth talker. It was obvious he cared deeply for John, yet remained steadfast about protecting his secret. He was still unclear where the detective fit in, but she clearly had some attachment to the two men. Whether it was personal of professional remained to be seen.

He supposed there was some honor to be taken from the fact Harold trusted him enough to ask him to join them. Steve just didn't know if he could do it. He was certain he'd be walking into a winless situation – not that bad odds had ever stopped him before. Losing his last patient to a preventable error had shaken him; the upheaval that followed had nearly destroyed him. He didn't know if he could stomach watching John die due to Harold's paranoia.

Something was keeping him from walking away. The desire to help a person in need was part of it, but it was mostly his own innate curiosity. While practicing, he'd made an effort to check up on his patients, especially the ones with a poor outlook. To save those others deemed to be beyond saving had served as a gauge for his skills as a surgeon. He hadn't been able to save them all, but the rush he got from the ones he did was a large part of why he'd gone into trauma medicine.

The damaged, jaded side of him said he'd fulfilled his duties and to take the money and run. If Harold came through with the expunged record, things would be even better. His curious side wanted him to stay to see if he still had what it took to save a life in a high-risk situation. It was his conscientious side, however, that spoke the loudest and reminded him of the moral obligations that came with the role of a doctor. It involved helping when, where, and however he could when he should, not just when it was convenient. Even if John got to the point where nothing could be done, he could at least make sure the man didn't suffer.

"I'll stay," Steve said quietly.

Harold's head snapped up, his expression rapidly changing from surprise to relief. "You will? Oh, thank goodness."

"I just don't know how much help I'll actually be. I'm a surgeon, not a general practitioner. I know how to do some things, but others…"

"Any help comes as a blessing, Doctor," Harold replied, turning to Joss. "Are you willing to remain back here, or would you rather drive?"

"I can stay back here."

"Have you ever bagged anyone before, Detective?" Steve asked.

"It's been a while, but yes, I have."

"Good. Let's get you set up so Harold's hands can have a break."

As Joss approached to take over the Ambu-Bag, the hacker stepped backed and rubbed his tired hands. They would be sore later, but that was the least of his worries. He watched as the doctor showed her the process, wanting to be sure everything was set before he left them alone.

"Did you catch that pause in his breathing? It's caused by the sedative. When he does that, give him a breath. It should occur less often once he starts to stabilize." When he was satisfied she had correct rhythm, Steve turned to Harold. "You said this place is an hour away?"

"At least. Are you sure John is well enough to make the trip?"

"As long as you take it slow and keep all six wheels on the ground, I think he'll be all right. Put your lights on, but no siren. Traffic should still let you through without much trouble."

Harold made to leave, pausing for a moment to touch John's arm. He wasn't going far, but it was still difficult to leave his side.

"We'll take care of him, Finch," Joss said, seeing the reluctance in his eyes.

"I know you will, Detective."

Harold shivered as he stepped out into the coolness of the night. Traffic zipped along the road adjacent to the gas station, proof that people and time had continued to march on even as their world had slowed within the confines of the rig. He limped over to the cab and hauled himself inside.

Through the rear window, he could see into the back of the rig. Joss was at John's head and Steve looked to be hanging up the next unit of blood. He knew the doctor didn't approve of their destination. His safe house back in the city was preferable, but John's tenuous condition dictated how far they could safely go.

The hacker forced his attention forward and fumbled for the keys in the dark. Starting the engine, he flipped random switches until he found the one that activated the rig's light bar. He dropped the gearshift into drive and slowly edged the large vehicle toward the street. Just as Steve predicted, traffic in both directions stopped to allow him through.

Before easing the rescue out onto the road, Harold gave a final look over his shoulder at his friend. "Stay with me, John," he uttered, and settled in for the long drive into the country.

* * *

From the outside, the building looked every bit like an old farmhouse, long ago forgotten behind a tangle of overgrown trees. The spacious rooms had all the quaint charm and furnishings of simple country living. Harold could sense Steve's displeasure mounting as they walked around, and even began to wonder himself if they had the right address – at least until they opened the door at the end of the hall.

Bright white light and the sharp smell of industrial cleanser met them as they stepped across the threshold. Gone were the rustic tones of an era past, replaced with the stainless steel, linoleum, and glass of a modern medical facility. Rows of cabinets and counters interspersed with clusters of dormant machinery occupied three of the walls. A large bed sat against the fourth one, where monitoring and oxygen equipment were recessed directly into the wall.

"Huh."

While Steve's response wasn't what Harold had expected, it summed up his own sentiments quite well. Due to time constraints, he'd been unable to check out the arrangements he'd made ahead of time. Luckily his connections had come through, and he found himself looking around the room with as much awe and approval as the doctor.

Steve was opening cabinets and pulling out drawers. The place was stocked to the hilt with everything he'd expect to find in a first rate trauma center, from the most basic bandage to resuscitation and life support equipment. The medicine cupboard was full of vials, bottles, and bags, all clearly labeled and arranged by purpose. Two entire cabinets were devoted to surgical tools, complete with a built-in sterilizer. All it needed was a hard wired sound system for music and the place would be a dream come true.

"Incredible," he uttered, looking over the machines that were tucked in the corner. "This equipment is state of the art. Only the best hospitals would have access to it. How did you…?"

"The less you know, Doctor," Harold reminded him gently.

Steve frowned at his evasiveness, but then decided the how really didn't matter. "Let's get John inside and settled."

Harold followed behind, turning on every light he found along the way. Fortunately the house had no nearby neighbors, so no one would be questioning the late night arrival of the rescue or notice that the place was lit up like a Christmas tree. "Do you find the place to be satisfactory?"

"It's not an intensive care unit – which I still feel would be best – but, given your circumstances, it should suffice," Steve replied as they made their way down the driveway.

They reached the rescue and pulled open the back doors. Joss was seated at John's head where they'd left her to watch him and assist his breathing.

"How's he doing, Detective?" Harold asked as he hauled himself into the back.

"There's been no change," she replied. "How do things look inside?"

"Surprisingly promising," Steve said as he began to rearrange and disconnect the things that would enable them to move John. They would have to make the transfer from the rig to the house carefully. Too much movement would stress the injured man, or worse, send him into full cardiac arrest. Getting the gurney out of the rescue wasn't going to be a problem; getting it up the five warped steps and onto the porch was a different matter.

Ambulance crews were usually made up of three or four medics that were trained to maneuver a loaded stretcher in difficult situations. But he didn't have that. He had a homicide detective and an academic type with a prominent limp. Neither one of them was built for wrestling a gurney around, let alone hauling it up stairs. It wasn't something he could do by himself, either.

"Harold, I'm going to have you take over bagging for Detective Carter," he said, having made his decision. "Detective, you're going to help me with the stretcher. It's a gravel driveway; you'll need to stabilize your end as much as possible to keep the vibration and fishtailing to a minimum. There are also a few stairs to climb, so Harold, you may have to give us a hand with that part."

As Harold and Joss traded positions, Steve fully opened the back doors and finished releasing the locks on the gurney. "We have to do this quickly, but carefully. The less stress we cause him, the better," he said, and hopped out of the rig to begin the tedious process of getting John inside.

* * *

Harold anxiously wrung his hands as he watched the doctor work. The transfer from the rig to the house had gone well up until when they tried to move John into the bed. As they started to lift him, his vital signs spiked and his hands tightened into fists. His distress quickly escalated into agitation, and Steve halted their efforts when he began to fight against the breathing tube. After a dose of pain medication and a short break, they were able to move John and get him settled with relative ease.

"How long must he be on that cursed machine?" Harold asked as the doctor made an adjustment to the mechanical ventilator. His aching hands were grateful for the reprieve from the constant compressions of the Ambu-Bag, but seeing his friend reliant on a machine for something as basic as breathing was difficult.

"Until he stabilizes enough to handle sedation without it," Steve replied.

"Why keep him sedated at all?"

"To help him heal and manage pain. It's not long term – a few days, a week tops."

"A _week_?" Harold was unable to keep the shock and dismay from his voice.

"I know you're anxious for him to be all right, but this isn't something he's going to bounce back from overnight," Steve pushed. "Yes, he's doing better than he was, but the improvement is small and extremely tenuous. You saw how easily he became stressed when we moved him. Too much of that and any forward progress will be lost. Right now his body needs to regulate itself and heal. To do that, he has to stay quiet and rest. You know John – is that something he'd willingly do if he were awake?"

Harold frowned. Since he'd recruited John, he'd never seen him sidelined for more than a few days. Injuries to him were an inconvenience and seen as part of the job. He'd allow himself minimal recovery time before delving back into work. He knew part of it was because of The Machine. Numbers kept coming in whether they were physically able to keep up with them or not. A strong sense of purpose and obligation kept John coming back, even if meant enduring the aches and pains that another few days of rest would cure. "No," he said at last.

"It's obvious that John's a fighter, and that's a good thing, but we don't want him fighting back against our efforts to help him," Steve explained. "Let's give him a few days to start healing. The more we help him out now, the better his chances will be later."

The hacker nodded. Although he didn't like it, he understood the doctor's reasoning. As badly as he wanted to hear from John personally, he didn't want to jeopardize his chances for survival either.

The door opened to admit Joss. "The rig's all locked down," she reported, coming over to the bed. John's color was better, but still not right, and the numbers displayed on the monitors continued to sporadically jump and fall. There was no mistaking he was in a bad way. "How's he doing?"

"As well as to be expected," Steve said. He was over at the room's built in sink, washing his hands in preparation to change out the dressing over John's wound. "So, Harold. This place of yours didn't happen to come with a couple of nurses, did it?"

"Unfortunately no. It's just myself and you."

"I'll help out where I can," she replied. "And Fusco too. Here or…elsewhere."

The doctor gave her cryptic answer a strange look, but Harold understood completely. Although neither detective knew about The Machine, they were still willing to help when and where they could.

"Any help is greatly appreciated, Detective, but please don't allow this to interfere with your other duties. And speaking of which, what time are you expected back at the precinct? I can arrange for a cab to take you back to your vehicle tonight…" He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "…This morning if need be."

"It's already taken care of. I'm not due back on duty until next Tuesday. I made the arrangements for some personal time while I was outside."

Harold shook his head. This is exactly what he didn't want to happen. "Detective, your personal time is for you, not…"

Joss held up her hand. "Spare me the lecture, Finch. It's my time and my choice. You and Dr. Maxwell can't be expected to handle this all on your own."

"But your son…"

"Is staying with a friend and studying for finals. Or at least he better be if he knows what's good for him."

Steve chuckled as he arranged the items he needed on a tray. "It must be tough having a homicide detective as a mother. Especially knowing that if you screw up bad enough, no one will ever find your body."

"I find bribery works with my son better than threats. He knows ownership of a new flat screen TV hinges on whether or not he passes his tests – _all_ of them."

"Fair enough." The doctor brought the supply tray over to the bed. "I'm sure you both already know this, but the next few days are going to be rough. John's condition is critical. That means improvements are going to be small, and the possibility of a crash remains high. He's going to need someone with him at all times until he stabilizes. I'll take care of his medical needs, but I'm going to need your help keeping an eye on him. You both know John. If you see something that doesn't look right, speak up. It could very well save his life."

"Whatever you need, Doctor," Harold replied.

Steve could see the commitment in their eyes. He found their connection intriguing – what could have possibly brought these three unlikely people together? The detective was law enforcement, but the men – what did they do? A highly intelligent bookish type paired with a man of mystery. Both had clearly experienced hardship in their lives. Harold limped and had the telltale signs of a fused neck, and he had seen some of the scars John carried. Were they law enforcement too? Military? Government? He wanted to ask, but he knew the response wouldn't answer his question.

 _Maybe later…_ He thought and set about tending to John's wound.

"I suppose a rotation schedule would be in order," Harold said; glad to have something to focus on other than what the doctor was doing. "It would ensure someone is always rested and available to be with John. Once Dr. Maxwell is finished, I'll gladly take the first shift…"

"Nope."

Joss and Harold both looked at the doctor in surprise.

"But, Dr. Maxwell…"

"There's nothing to argue, Harold," Steve said, not looking up from his work. As expected, the incision site was gory and swollen. It was too soon to be showing signs of infection, but he'd already mega dosed John with antibiotics to play it safe. "I'll be taking the first shift. In fact, I don't expect to be leaving this room much in the next 24 to 48 hours."

The hacker wasn't pleased. John was his associate. His partner. His friend. He was the one who'd given John the assignment in the first place, essentially sending him into the sights of the perpetrator's bow. He felt at least partially responsible for his injuries, if not completely. The logical place for him now was at John's side. Steve couldn't possibly expect him to leave when his friend needed his support the most.

"Dr. Maxwell, I respect your need to stay close, but I would also like to remain with John at this time. If something should happen, I want…" _…the opportunity to say goodbye…_ How easily the words could be thought, but not spoken aloud.

"If something happens, I will let you _both_ know." Steve could tell his assurance was enough for Joss, but Harold remained skeptical. "At a time like this, it's easier to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. I've always encouraged people to do the opposite; prepare for the best and hope the worst doesn't happen.

"Now you've both had a long, difficult day. You need to eat and get some rest. Once I feel John is stable enough to hold his own, I'll step out and catch a few hours of sleep myself. Until then, you two need to take care of yourselves so you'll be ready step in when it's time."

Joss saw Harold's shoulders slump. Unsure if it was sign of resignation or defeat, she touched his arm. "The kitchen is pretty well stocked with the basics. I'll go warm us up some soup."

As the detective took her leave, Harold reached down and touched John's shoulder. It was an awkward gesture – neither one of them was the touchy, feely type – but at that moment, it felt right. He found comfort in the warmth he felt beneath his hand; a warmth that meant he was alive. He hoped that, through the haze of drugs, John was taking comfort in the rare contact too, and understood that he wasn't alone.

"I'll take care of him, Harold," Steve said, hoping to both reassure and dismiss the man.

Taking the hint, the hacker stepped back from the bed. "I know you will, Doctor." Forcing himself to turn away, Harold walked stiffly toward the door, denying himself the temptation of looking back.


	13. Chapter 13

Except for the words "Please Wait…" and a blinking cursor, the computer screen was blank. Harold tapped his finger against the table, becoming increasingly twitchy as he waited for his laptop to reboot. Surely it wasn't normal for the system to be running this slow. There had to be something wrong; a virus or a corrupt file buried deep within the coding. Or maybe it wasn't running slow at all, maybe he was just being impatient.

At last the screen cleared and the operating system came back online. Harold sat up expectantly and waited. A moment later, his cluttered desktop appeared and a message icon flashed in the corner. Virtually pouncing on the mouse, he clicked on the icon to open the message window. "No Errors Detected" it declared in simple block lettering.

The hacker stared at the screen in disbelief. "That's utterly impossible," he muttered, unsure whether to celebrate the results or be concerned. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he opted to run the system diagnostic again. With nothing to do but wait, Harold wheeled his chair over beside the bed to sit with John.

"I don't understand, Mr. Reese. It's been nearly three days since The Machine's reported a Number. Mrs. Barton, in fact, was the last one. We've gone a day without a Number before, two even, but never three. This is New York we're talking about; there are millions of people. Premeditated crime just doesn't go away overnight."

He looked over at John. The other man couldn't hear him, of course; he was still sedated. He was improving, albeit slowly. His vital signs were stronger, and his heart rhythm was no longer broken by arrhythmic spasms. The IV catheter had been removed from his neck and relocated to his arm. The previous evening, Steve had deemed him stable enough to remove the ventilator.

 _This is a big step in the right direction…_ The doctor had said as he replaced the invasive breathing tube with a nasal cannula. _…But we can't become complacent. Things could still change very quickly…_

At the moment, Harold was just happy to have someone to talk to, even if he was essentially talking to himself. Joss had gone into town to meet with the local detective assigned to the Walsh sibling investigation, and Steve had holed up in one of the bedrooms to sleep. Not that he could have discussed The Machine's apparent problem with either one of them anyway.

"I've run every debugging program and diagnostic tool I have at my disposal, and I still haven't found a plausible reason for what's going on. I'm beginning to think a full system reboot is in order, but I can't do that from this remote location. Well, not easily anyway. If the reboot triggered a system failure, I'd have no way to restore it without returning to the Library.

"It's not like The Machine is completely absent either. It responds to me readily whenever I engage it. I played chess with it last night to test its probability forecasting and it preformed flawlessly for the first two games. Then it began making foolish, amateur mistakes and I was able to win the next two rounds. I thought for certain it was a glitch in the program, but it easily won the next game and asked if I wanted to play again. The same pattern occurred: it won, I won, and then it won again. We went on like this for several hours before I finally realized it wasn't malfunctioning – The Machine was letting me win to keep me playing."

A small, almost proud smile appeared briefly on his lips. "It appears The Machine likes to stay occupied just as much as we do. It seems to prefer games of chance and reason the most. Chess and Blackjack are its favorites; although I'd much rather see it devoting its resources to finding Numbers than playing parlor games."

The hacker's attention was drawn back to the present when his laptop beeped. He stood and limped over to check the results of the repeated scan. The same "No Errors Detected" window appeared when he opened the blinking message icon. He'd known running the scan a second time was futile, but that didn't stop the fleeting idea of trying it yet again from crossing his mind. Pushing the idea aside, he sighed and returned to his chair.

"It's probably a good thing you're oblivious to all this, Mr. Reese." He knew John wouldn't be overly concerned with the computer side of things, but the lack of work would drive him – and anyone within his immediate vicinity – up the walls. He was an active man that thrived on the often physically intense aspects of his job. Harold couldn't recall ever seeing his friend remain stationary for long, except for when he cleaned and oiled his arsenal.

"I may try going into town again when Detective Cater returns, although I'm not sure what rationale I could use. The first day I returned the ambulance, and the last two mornings I've gone to fetch the paper and something for breakfast. I suppose I could go out just for some general supplies – we are running low on a few things. I need to be careful around the locals though. I don't want them to become suspicious of my "loitering" by the payphones."

Harold looked at his laptop perched on the table across the room. The screen appeared as it always did when it was inactive. There were no error messages, blue screens, or other visual signs to indicate that there something was wrong. He knew he had to at least consider the possibility that there was nothing wrong with the system at all. Although unlikely, The Machine could have bypassed its programming and simply stopped looking for Numbers. But why?

"This is all so frustrating…"

"What is?"

Harold's head snapped up to find Steve standing in the doorway. _How long has he been there?_ "Computer problems," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Nothing major." _Unless it's your Number The Machine is choosing to ignore…_

"Never had much use for those things outside of work," Steve replied as he went to the sink to wash his hands. "I had a friend in college that would geek out over every little thing that appeared on the market. Try as he might, he never could keep up with it all."

"It's a passion that can easily become an obsession," Harold agreed. He watched as the doctor consulted the clipboard they'd been using to record John's vital signs every fifteen minutes. "How is he looking to you?"

"Better than I thought he would." He set aside the clipboard and began to gather what he would need to do a bandage change. Given the less than ideal circumstances in which the injury and subsequent surgery had occurred, it was something he did often to help stave off infection. "If he keeps going like this, I'll probably let him wake up in a few days."

It was something Harold had been hoping to hear. "So, have you given any consideration as to what you're going to do after this?"

"Some. I'll have to get a résumé together and find some references that won't mention the real reason for my five-year hiatus. And I certainly can't use anyone from my last two jobs since I've been AWOL to both the last couple of days."

"Actually, you may find them to be more accommodating than you think. I took the liberty of contacting your employers to notify them of your departure."

Steve looked up from his work. "You did what?"

"I also provided them with several candidates to consider for your replacement. Both supervisors where sorry to see you go, especially on such short notice, but they understood."

"So I'm unemployed. Again." It was a sobering thought.

"Yes, however I suspect you won't be for very long."

"Then you must know something I don't, because finding work in my field isn't easy. You can't just walk into any ER and ask for an application."

"No, but there are other ways of getting noticed – such as knowing someone influential already on the inside."

"And I suppose you do?"

"Perhaps."

The doctor snorted. "Here we go with the ambiguity again."

"It's just something you'll have to trust me on," Harold said.

Steve muttered something incomprehensible as he got back to work. Lifting the old dressing away from John's side, he discovered the gauze underneath to be more saturated than it had been during previous changes.

"Is that normal?"

"Yes and no. It's a deep wound, so it's going to drain more than a shallow one would. There's no off color or odor, so it's unlikely to be anything serious. I'll probably change his antibiotic to something a bit stronger to be on the safe side. It'll help clear up anything before it can take hold."

Harold watched as the doctor set to work cleaning the wound. He was becoming more desensitized to the process everyday, and the sight of blood was bothering him less and less. Several minutes passed before he realized he was relaxed enough to almost be nodding off. Removing his glasses, he wearily rubbed his face.

"You look tired," Steve observed, having seen the dark circles under the hacker's eyes.

"I was up most of the night trying to sort out the issues with my computer," he explained, purposely leaving out that his method of "sorting out the issues" involved playing several hours worth of chess. "I managed to get a few hours of sleep very early this morning, but it obviously wasn't enough."

"So go crash now."

"I'm scheduled to sit with John for several more hours."

Steve waved him off. "I'm up, I'll stay with him. You need your sleep just as much as the rest of us. And who knows? Maybe your little computer problem will resolve itself while you're napping."

 _Little computer problem…_ "It's possible. I may need to go into town when Detective Carter returns later this afternoon though."

"You'll have to go farther than that."

"Farther for what?" Harold asked, confused.

"To find whatever you need to fix your computer. The nearest big box store is nearly fifty miles from here."

"Oh, right." The hacker didn't have the heart to tell him he seriously doubted he could find what he needed at the mega mart. Standing, he looked down at John as if to ask for permission to leave. The former agent was deeply asleep, and wouldn't care one way or the other if he left.

"Go on. Get out of here," Steve prodded, sensing the other man's hesitation. "If I think you're going to miss something, I know where to find you."

Realizing he was stalling, Harold collected his laptop and took his leave, hoping a few hours of rest would serve to recharge both himself and The Machine.

* * *

John was floating. It wasn't an overly unpleasant feeling, but he still found it disconcerting. His thoughts were scattered, and no matter how hard he tried, focus eluded him. The passage of time was distorted, seeming to stand still one moment and race ahead the next. There was pain, but it was distant and tolerable. He knew there was only one explanation. He was drugged. Heavily.

 _What'd you get yourself into this time?_

Unable to recall what had happened, John didn't know if he was among friends or enemies. The presence of the drugs suggested the former, but he'd dealt with people who'd used chemical restraint in the past. The drugs pulled relentlessly at his consciousness, trying to draw him back toward the darkness of oblivion. Oddly enough, his body wanted to follow them rather than resist. He already felt exhausted, and he'd only been semi-cognizant for what he perceived to be a few minutes.

 _Guess they brought out the good stuff…_

The first thing he became aware of was a low, constant hiss that filled his ears. It vaguely reminded him of a white noise machine or air slowly leaking from a tire. Was someone purposely trying to cloud his senses to keep him from getting a fix on his surroundings?

As his focus sharpened, John was able to detect other sounds too. Off to his left, there was a sporadic tapping and to his right, a cadenced beeping. Both were familiar, but neither was immediately identifiable.

He chose to concentrate on the beeping, using its consistency to keep himself present and grounded to the outside world.

 _What happened?_

Although his level of awareness was increasing, his mind was still a jumbled mess. Random images, many of them seemingly unrelated, swirled through his head at a dizzying pace. Large trees, stonewalls, ATVs, night vision goggles, a zebra with black and pink stripes – the pictures kept coming, flooding his mind and confusing him further. The one that appeared most often was of a large black bird with shockingly blue eyes. In its beak was an arrow with bloody points and something printed along the shaft.

Why would a crow need an arrow?

With the other images whipping by in the background, the bird turned and looked at him with its strange blue eyes. Opening its beak, it dropped the arrow to the ground. Another set of points sprang open on impact, giving it a vicious double head. John realized it wasn't an arrow he was looking at, but a bolt made for a crossbow. The numbers "1968" were printed along the shaft. The bird considered him for a moment longer before opening its beak again, this time to vocalize. Rather than the expected caw or croak, the shrill whinny of a horse came out instead.

Now John was really confused. The whinnying crow, the bolt, the numbers…

 _The numbers…no…not numbers, but_ A _Number…I was working a Number…_

Things quickly began to fall into place. John remembered driving out the country to meet with the Number Harold had given him that morning. It was a young woman with horses.

 _Maggie…Her siblings wanted her dead. The horses…Count and Raven…Raven…_

He realized the whinnying bird he'd seen wasn't a crow, but a raven. It was also the name of the blue eyed, black mare he'd ridden.

 _There were men chasing us…Her siblings sent them to kill her to secure the farm for themselves…_

John recalled the two men who'd chased them on ATVs. They'd had crossbows, but luckily weren't very skilled at shooting them.

 _I was hit by a stray shot when we were trying to get away…we freed the horses to lead them off our trail…_

The plan had worked too, at least for while. Then the bolt's mechanical head opened, and he'd been forced to remove it or risk bleeding to death in the middle of the forest.

 _I passed out…we lost too much time…_

The men caught up with them only a few miles from the rendezvous point they had arranged with Harold. They'd had no choice but to confront them. John vaguely remembered the fight.

 _I had to shoot one of them…Cocky bastard had it coming too…_

His memory started to get fuzzy after that. He could only remember faint snatches of the rest of their journey: his collapse; the arrival of his friends; the long, difficult walk up to the road; being stuffed into the backseat of Harold's car; and then nothing at all.

A wave of fatigue crashed over him so hard and fast, John nearly lost his bid to stay conscious. The mere act of thinking was draining his energy. Things weren't going to go well if he had to do anything strenuous any time soon.

 _Like fight…_

His recollection of events hadn't helped him figure out where he was or whom he was with. His senses were sluggish, and he couldn't fully trust his perception. There were still things he didn't understand and gaps in his memory that didn't make sense. Besides, any number of things could have happened between their arrival at Harold's car and now. Questions began bombarding his mind faster than he could process them.

 _Is Maggie safe? Are Finch and Fusco safe? Am I safe? What happened to the men we left tied in the woods? What about Maggie's siblings? Did Carter get to them in time, or did they escape and possibly come after Maggie themselves? What about…_

A sudden clattering nearby made him involuntarily jump. Pain exploded from his left side and sent fiery tendrils shooting across his belly. Unable to silence the groan that escaped him, John automatically tensed when he heard the scrape of a chair against the floor and footsteps rapidly approaching. He was going to find out if the person in the room with him was friend or foe more directly than he'd hoped.

"Mr. Reese? John? Are you awake? John?"

 _Finch_ … John relaxed the instant he recognized the voice. He tried to open his eyes, but the room's lights were too bright.

"Oh, the lights. I'm sorry, Mr. Reese. I wasn't thinking. There. Try again and go slowly this time. You've been unconscious for several days. I imagine your eyes will need a few moments to adjust."

John did as he was told, and this time managed to keep his eyes open with minimal squinting. His vision was blurry, but it cleared and focused with every couple of blinks. He found Harold standing beside him, a combination of delight, concern, and uncertainty on his face.

"It's good to finally see you awake, Mr. Reese, we've all been terribly worried. I didn't startle you too badly when I dropped my clipboard, did I? How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Is there anything you need? Are you warm enough? There are extra blankets if you want one…"

John wanted to tell his friend to stop and take a breath, but his dry, achy throat refused to cooperate. He saw Harold reach for something out of his sight and produced a cup of water with a straw. Seeing the liquid, he suddenly realized just how ravenously thirsty he was.

"I've been instructed not to give you more than a few sips at a time. You're apt to be sick if you take in too much at once." He brought the straw to his associate's lips and held it steady while he drank.

The water was cold and instantly soothed his aching throat. "Thanks," he uttered once Harold withdrew the straw.

The hacker smiled, pleased to hear him speak. "You can have more in a bit," he said, setting the glass aside. He noticed John looking around the room. "We're at a safe house about an hour outside of town. It and the ambulance that brought you here are on loan from an acquaintance of mine. I would have rather taken you back to the city, but you were too sick to make the trip at the time."

He regarded his friend for a moment before speaking again. "It was close, John. We nearly lost you. If I had been any later getting you to Dr. Maxwell, or if he had refused to help…well, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. You lost nearly half of your blood volume on the trail and went into severe hypovolemic shock. It's a good thing Mrs. Barton was there to help, otherwise…"

"Maggie…" John interrupted. He had to know if she was all right.

"She's fine, Mr. Reese. Both the men chasing you and her siblings have been arrested and formally charged with several crimes, including homicide. I'm sure Detective Carter can fill you in on the details once you're feeling up to it."

John shut his eyes; relieved to know Maggie was safe and another innocent life had been spared.

"Mr. Reese? Are you all right? Are you in pain? Should I get the doctor?"

"I'm good, Finch," he replied.

"I should probably alert Dr. Maxwell anyway. He's going to want to know you're awake. I suspect he's going to be pleased given his earlier concerns. I admit that even I had my doubts when he began working…what in the world is all of that noise?"

On the other side of the closed door, a commotion of voices could be heard.

"Excuse me a moment, Mr. Reese."

As Harold went to investigate the noise, John took a moment to look around some more. He quickly found the source of the steady beeping to be a heart monitor and the hissing he'd mistaken for white noise to be supplemental oxygen. He wanted to remove the annoying cannula from beneath his nose, but he lacked the strength needed to lift his arms.

"He's covered with bacteria. He can't go in there."

"He just got back from the groomers. He smells better than I do, for crying out loud."

"Scent and cleanliness aren't always related."

"He just wants to see his friend. What if I wipe his paws first?"

"I'm sorry, Detective. The answer is no."

With the door open, John could better hear the conversation in the other room. He didn't recognize one of the voices, but the other was definitely Lionel.

"He practically dragged me up the driveway. I don't know how he knows Wonder Boy is here, but things are going to get ugly if you don't let him in for a sniff."

"I'm not letting an animal into what is essentially an ICU. Do you realize the damage he could do if he jumped on the bed and stepped on John?"

"So I'll keep him on the floor. He listens to me. Sort of."

John smirked. _Self assured as always, Fusco…_

"You shouldn't have even brought him here. The dirt and dander he's tracking in just heightens the infection risk. I want him gone."

A low growling reverberated through the air.

"And that's not going to work either, you pointy eared mutt. I grew up with three German Shepherds – I can tell you're bluffing."

The growling continued, slowly growing in intensity.

"I don't know, Doc, he looks pretty serious to me."

"Get him out!"

"Gentlemen, please!" Harold exclaimed. "While I'm sure there's some significance to your petty arguing, there is something more important to attend to. John is awake."

Silence, then the hurried click of toenails against the floor. A moment later, John felt a pointed snout nosing its way under his hand.

"Bear," he greeted, rubbing the dog's ears.

"He shouldn't be in here."

"He's not hurting anything."

Harold, Lionel, and a man he didn't recognize came into view.

"John, this is Dr. Stephen Maxwell," Harold said when he saw him eyeballing the stranger. "He's responsible for piecing you back together after your…accident."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," Steve replied. "You're a very lucky man. You nearly bled to death."

"I remember."

"Carter's been filling me in on your progress. The way you looked when we found you that night, I didn't think…well, I'm glad you're doing all right."

John raised an eyebrow. "Miss me already, Fusco?"

"Don't tell anyone."

"Has Harold caught you up on what's been going on?" Steve asked.

"Some."

"In all honesty, he should have taken you to a hospital. However, I understand there are unique circumstances that prevented him from doing so. You were in a very bad way when I first saw you. You had one of, if not the worst case of hypovolemic shock I've ever seen. You heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature were all far below normal, and your…"

John paid Steve little notice. He knew it was rude and the information was probably important, but paying attention required energy, and the limited amount he had was divided between petting Bear and just keeping his eyes open. Besides, he would have rather listened to Lionel's report on the arrest of the two men than hear about his own injuries.

He managed to at least pretend to be listening until another, stronger wave of fatigue tried to pull him back under. He tried to hide it from the others, but the doctor noticed.

"All right. Visiting hours are over. Harold, you can stay, but Detective…"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Make myself scarce." He turned to John. "Glad to see you're on the mend. Get well soon. The days are too routine without you guys around to mess them up."

"Oh, and Detective…" Steve pointed at Bear. "Take him with you, please."

From beneath his master's hand, the dog started to growl.

"Bear!" Harold admonished. He was surprised when John didn't scold Bear himself, then saw that the other man's eyes were closed. "Gaan." (Out)

The growl abruptly dissolved into whine as the Malinois backed away from the bed and skulked toward the door with his head and tail down. His hackles, however, remained raised as he passed Steve.

"I'm sorry, Doctor. He's just being protective of John," Harold said before turning to Lionel. "We'll be in touch, Detective."

"I hope so, and make sure Superman takes his medicine, huh?" Pulling Bear's leash from his pocket, Lionel went to retrieve the brooding dog. "Come on, Fuzz Ball. I'll get you a burger."

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend…" Harold began to say, but the detective had already left. _Better he deals with the gastrointestinal consequences than I…_

"I don't see how you can keep him around. He's a liability, you know," Steve said.

"Fusco means well," John replied sleepily.

"Fusco? No, I mean the dog. He's a…" The doctor saw the corner of John's lips twitch into the ghost of a smirk. Harold was smiling too. "Oh, I get it. Funny. Well, your sense of humor – albeit warped – seems to be intact. Let's see about the rest of you."

He gave the former agent a quick once over, and was fairly pleased with what he found. "Are you in any pain?" he asked, going over to the room's drug cabinet.

"It's tolerable."

Although not a direct answer to his question, John's response gave him all the information he needed. "You're due for another dose of medication in about an hour, but I'm going to give it to you now." He selected a vial and brought it over to the counter where the syringes were kept.

"I don't need…"

"For the next few days, I'm going to ask that you let me worry about your needs, all right? You have a high pain tolerance, and that's great, but your energy needs to be going towards healing right now, not pain control." He drew off the correct dose and returned to the bed. He'd barely met John ten minutes ago, and he could already tell he was unhappy. "As you regain your strength, we'll back off the meds and see how you do, but for now, I need you to trust me to know what's best."

John watched as the doctor emptied the syringe into one of his IV lines. Moments later, he felt a sharp pull on his consciousness as the drugs wasted no time getting to work.

"Go to sleep, John," Harold urged when he saw his friend struggling to keep his eyes open. "One of us will be here should you need anything."

He found it ironic how they wanted him to go back to sleep even though he'd just woken up. Bone weary and sore, John finally gave up the fight, closed his eyes, and started to drift.

"Do you think he'll be all right?" He heard Harold ask from somewhere far away.

"Until his wound heals more, he'll still be vulnerable to infection. Otherwise, he's looking far better than I ever expected. We'll get him back on his feet; it's just going to take time and a lot of patience."

John had patience, just not necessarily with himself. At least he knew he'd be returning to work. And, if he had his way, it would happen sooner than later. Encouraged and reassured by the doctor's optimism, he relaxed and allowed the drugs to carry him deeper into the dreamless land of oblivion.


	14. Chapter 14

The following morning, Harold was leaving the small coffee shop he'd stopped at for breakfast when a familiar sound caught his attention. There was a covered bus stop across the street with several payphones beside it. One of them was ringing. Nearly forgetting to check for traffic before he stepped into the street, Harold hurried across as fast as his limping gait would carry him.

 _Can it possibly be…?_

Sitting on the bench under the shelter was a woman and her small child. The woman was preoccupied with her own phone, while the child – a boy of less than ten – stared at Harold as he hobbled his way over to the cluster of booths. "Hey, mister," he said, clearly unbothered by talking to strangers. "You going to answer it?"

The hacker looked at the phone, suddenly certain that the call would be a malfunction or a robo-dialer phishing for a valid number. "I think I should, don't you?"

The boy nodded earnestly, his mother completely oblivious to their exchange.

"You're right. It would be rather rude of me not to." Shifting his newspaper, box of pastries, and cup of tea into one hand, he lifted the receiver. When the sound of nothingness filled his ear, Harold felt his heart sink in disappointment. His instincts had been right all along. Someone had dialed the payphone's extension by mistake, or maybe it was just the phone company running a test.

He was about to replace the receiver when a familiar voice began to speak. It caught him so much by surprise, he completely missed the first part of the message. "Wait, wait," he commanded, struggling to get the notebook from his pocket without dropping everything in the process. "All right – again." He quickly jotted down the coded message as it was repeated. When he was finished, he looked up and spotted the camera mounted on a light post nearby. Its red indicator light was blinking; The Machine was actively watching him.

"Good. Thank you," Harold said, and hung up the phone. His body tingled with a combined sense of relief and satisfaction.

"Who was it, mister?" the boy – who had come to stand beside him – asked.

"An old friend," the hacker replied.

The boy's mother suddenly realized her son was no longer where she had left him. "Hang on a minute – Danny? Danny, come over here and stop bothering that man."

"Oh, he's not bothering me, ma'am," Harold assured her.

"The phone was ringing and he answered it. He _knew_ the person, Mom. How neat is that?"

The woman looked from her son, to Harold, then back to her son. "Sit down and be quiet. I'm on the phone," she said and resumed her conversation.

"You're _always_ on the phone…" the boy muttered as he climbed back up onto the bench and sat down.

Harold frowned. Technological advancements were a good thing, at least until they became all consuming. Then it was their human counterparts – their creators – that suffered the most. "Thank you, young man. If you hadn't been here, I don't think I would have bothered to answer the phone."

The boy grinned. "If it rings again, I'll get it."

Smiling, Harold left the boy to guard the phone and started back across the street where his car was parked. He had planned to run a few errands while in town, but the call he'd gotten changed everything.

Time had once again become finite. After a weeklong absence, The Machine was back and they had a Number.

* * *

Nearly a week passed before John's condition had improved enough for Steve to start backing off on his medication. He was gradually allowed to sit up for short intervals, but leaving the bed was still out of the question. On the one occasion he tried, the pain in his side was so sharp that it caught him completely by surprise. Alerted by the screaming bedside alarms, the doctor came running and spent the next half hour lecturing him about the dangers of pushing himself too hard too soon.

Everyday, his wound was looking better and draining less. Without access to imaging equipment, it was difficult to tell how his internal injuries were healing, but he was showing no signs of organ damage or failure. His chances for a delayed reaction to the blood transfusion were lessening too.

The only sticking point was his appetite, which had yet to return. He would usually pick at the assortment of broths, soups, crackers, breads, and simple rice dishes offered to him, but he rarely finished anything. He blamed it mostly on inactivity, but there was also the pain. Although sporadic, the sharp pains were bad enough to put him off food for the rest of the day. Steve's solution was to bring him less food, more often. He was still unable to finish all he was brought, but if it made the doctor happy, he was willing to humor him. For a while anyway.

"Fusco said he couldn't get Gamble Mirandized quick enough," Joss was saying. It was the first time she'd seen John since he'd really woken up. Once her leave ended, the demands of work, her personal life, and the intermittent tips from Harold made it difficult to make the trip. "Even as he was reading him his rights, the man just kept going on and on, swearing he hadn't known about the hit. Of course he lost all credibility when he asked Sullivan if he thought they were still going to get paid."

"Sounds about right," John replied, absently picking at cold toast and a congealed egg white omelet.

"I won't repeat what Fusco said Sullivan told Gamble to go do to himself, but it was a new one even for him. Things apparently got fractious after that, and he commanded Bear to sit between them. Except for an occasional growl, he said the backseat was silent the rest of the way to the station."

John smirked. He could just see the large dog glaring at the two men, daring them to try something foolish. "How did things go for you at the stable?"

"Not without its problems. I called for backup after Finch told me what you'd heard. I had Alexis in custody before the deputies arrived. She immediately demanded her lawyer, and threatened to sue me for unlawful contact when I searched her for weapons. I can imagine what she said to the intake officer at the jail when they strip searched her."

"What about the brother?"

"He was spotted coming out of the woods with two black horses. When he saw the deputies walking toward him, he swung up on one of them and tried to get away."

"How far did he get?"

"Not very. The horse didn't appreciate Mark being on its back and bucked him off. He broke his arm when he landed, but that didn't stop him from fighting with the officers when they tried to cuff him."

John was shaking his head. "He knew why they were there."

"The horses came running up from the field – they were so beautiful. The deputies had their hands full with Mark, so I took control of them. One of them had the most incredible blue eyes."

"Raven," he said.

"Who?"

"She's the horse I rode – a nice animal. The near death experience aside, I actually enjoyed myself that day," he said, glad the stress of the incident hadn't robbed him of the good memories.

"Ah huh. Was that before or after you kneecapped Sullivan?"

"He made me do it."

Joss knew he was serious, but she could still hear the hint of satisfaction in his voice. "That's what Maggie said – he was threatening to shoot you both. She also said she asked you to kill them outright, but you wouldn't. You told her they were more valuable alive."

"They are. If you can get them talking."

"Oh we have, believe me. Once the sheriff saw my credentials, he asked if I'd be willing to help with some of the interrogations. Sullivan and Alexis were the hardest to crack, but we got through. We also got search warrants for the entire estate, all four residences, and both businesses. Local detectives are still sifting through everything, but bits of evidence keep popping up. One of the biggest finds so far was the truck used to rundown the mother. The lab's still processing it, but they've found animal hair and what looks like blood up inside the front wheel wells."

"What about the father?"

"It turns out you were right about him being poisoned. Forensics took samples from all of the alcohol they found in house. Lab tests revealed traces of phenylbutazone – a common horse medication – in several of the whiskies. Small doses in humans generally aren't fatal, but over time they damage the liver and kidneys."

"Maggie said he died of liver failure."

"They had the state forensic toxicologist take a look at David Walsh's medical records. His treating physician thought it was due to his alcohol consumption, but the state's expert didn't agree. Luckily there were still blood and tissue samples in storage from his autopsy. New tests confirmed that phenylbutazone was present in his system and the damage done to his organs was consistent with similar cases on record."

John frowned. One question still weighed heavily on his mind. "They don't suspect Maggie in any of this, do they?"

"There was a discussion about it at first, especially after Alexis tried to involve her with the poisoning. She's been questioned extensively by the DA, myself, and several other detectives on the force. Other than her proximity to the victims, we couldn't find anything to link her to the deaths of her parents. She's agreed to testify in court if called upon."

"You don't think they'll plea bargain out?"

"Gamble might, but not the others. I don't know any judge on the circuit that would accept a lesser charge in a case like this. The details and planning that went into what the three of them did shows just how cold and calculating they all are. They're going to go down for murder and nothing less."

The former agent sighed. "All for money."

"It's a powerful thing. We see it everyday in homicide."

"I hope Maggie will be all right."

"I think she will. She's got a good head on her shoulders and Finch set her up with a top rate lawyer in case her integrity is challenged again," Joss assured him. "You know, the last time I saw her, she was pretty concerned about you too."

"Me?"

"You did almost die in her arms, John."

"I was just doing my job."

"Well, she's grateful for it, and she asked if she could contact you through me. I said she could; I hope you don't mind."

"It's fine…" he replied, a bit uncertainly. It wasn't unheard of for Numbers to want to keep in contact, but it was unusual. Most of the time everyone went their separate ways and all connections were severed. Those that stuck around often became a resource for future cases or a reoccurring obstacle they had to contend with. In Maggie, however, he didn't see the potential for either one.

"I haven't heard anything yet, but if I do, I'll let you know."

A loud knock on the door made both of them jump. "Room service," Steve said, poking his head inside. He walked over to the bed carrying a tray loaded with a steaming bowl and a pile of crackers. "You didn't finish your breakfast."

"I wasn't hungry."

"You need to eat."

"I will."

"When?"

"When I'm hungry."

Unable to keep from smiling, Joss hid it beneath her hand. Harold had warned her the two men weren't getting along well, and to see Steve's decisive attitude up against John's matter-of-fact one was rather amusing.

The doctor gave a weary sigh. "John…"

"I told you – if I'm not…"

"I know, I know. If you're not physically active, you don't get hungry."

"Some people are like that," Joss agreed. "My ex-husband…"

"Detective," Steve said, interrupting her before she could say more. "Please don't encourage him." He switched out the trays, replacing the cold, unfinished meal with the hot one. "You may not be exerting yourself physically right now, but you still need calories. You're healing, and that puts a strain on the body's resources just as much as exercise."

"It does smell pretty good." Now it was John giving her the annoyed look. _Just keep your mouth shut, Carter. Let the boys figure things out for themselves…_

"Do you want some? I made a ton of it last night. You know what? Stay there, I'll get you some." Steve hurried from the room as an idea came to mind. It was a long shot, but if he got the detective eating, it might entice John to eat as well. The method typically only worked on small children and dogs, but at this point he was willing to try anything.

"You shouldn't do that," Joss said once they were alone.

"Do what?"

"Antagonize him. He did save your life."

"And I'm thankful. I just don't appreciate being treated like a child."

"He's a doctor. He's trying to take care of you."

John started to say he didn't need to be taken care of, but stopped short when he remembered he was still tethered to half a dozen different machines and drips. "He's mothering me."

"He's treating you. Don't you think he has a pretty good idea what your body needs right now?"

"I've been through this before; _I_ know what _my_ body needs. And believe me, it doesn't involve soup."

"There's a grill on the back porch. If I cook you up a few steaks, would you eat them?"

John gave her a dangerous look. She was trying to call his bluff and he didn't like it. "I don't need you on my back too, Carter."

"You didn't answer my question." She was toeing the line with him and knew she had to be careful.

"If I can't finish a handful of crackers, how the hell am I supposed to eat a steak?"

"So it's not the food choice. Is it pain? Depression? Have you talked to Steve about it?"

"Carter…"

"Or have you just gotten your wants confused with your needs?"

John's eyes went black. She'd seen this side of him before – the monster – but had never been on the receiving end of it. It took every bit of determination not to flinch away.

Steve felt the tension as soon as he entered the room. Joss and John were fixated on each other like a pair of incensed wolves. The extra stress wasn't good for John, but self-preservation told him it would be unwise to say anything. He quickly passed the detective her soup and left, pausing only to draw the door closed behind him.

Joss was first to break from the glaring match, but only to look down at the bowl Steve had given her. Coarsely chopped vegetables were suspended in a golden broth. She'd lost her appetite the moment John's anger shifted, but she forced herself to pick up the spoon anyway. When she tasted the soup, however, her desire to eat returned as fast as it had fled. Hot, rich and incredibly flavorful, she nearly forgot about the broody man beside her.

"Mm. You don't know what you're missing."

"Yes, I do."

The change in John's voice told her they were referring to two different things. The blind anger was gone, replaced with a forlorn despondence. She was so used to seeing him in control of his emotions that this was even more frightening to see than the monster. The man looked lost, not just in thought, but in purpose as well. All at once, she thought she had a good idea of what was going on.

"John? You okay?"

Unable to physically leave, John merely closed his eyes. There was no doubt the gesture was meant to shut her out, but Joss wouldn't be dismissed so easily.

"I know you're feeling pretty frustrated right now," she began as she set aside her half eaten meal. "Probably anxious too. And I'm not talking about for yourself, of course, at least not predominately. You're worried about other people – you're friends. Finch. Me. Maybe Fusco. We're out there working while you're stuck in bed, wondering if we're all right.

"I'll bet you're taking it one step further too, by worrying about people you don't even know. Now I'm still not entirely sure what it is you and Finch do, but I know it's good. You've saved a lot of lives and sent a respectable number of scumbags to prison too. It's the people you feel you could be – _should be_ helping that you're thinking about. You're wondering if Finch, Fusco, and myself can manage on our own. It's not out of arrogance, but a genuine concern for those who can't help themselves."

Joss saw his eyebrows twitch. Maybe she was getting through to him after all.

"I've been on the injured list before," she continued. "I know what it feels like to watch my colleagues be sent off without me. To hope they're safe and pray nothing goes wrong. And that worry is okay when you can keep it under control. It's when it starts to consume you that it becomes a problem."

"I'm not consumed with worry, Carter," he said without opening his eyes.

"Then maybe consumed isn't the right word. There's something more than inactivity that's getting to you. Now what is it?" When John offered nothing further, Joss decided to try a different approach. "It goes both ways, you know. The worry. Finch, Fusco, and I may all have other things on our plate right now, but you're still on our minds. And you will be too until Steve says otherwise."

"You don't need to worry about me."

"Why not? You're worried about us. You're even worried about people you don't know."

"You – they – are important to me."

"And you're important to me – to all of us." She saw what looked like discomfort briefly cross his face. "You come across as a tough guy, and I've seen you play the role. I know what you're capable of, John, and I'm not ashamed to say it scares the hell out of me. But you're also one of the most caring people I know. You don't like to see good people get hurt."

"Most people don't."

"But _unlike_ most people, you have the spirit to step in and make sure it doesn't happen."

John opened his eyes. He looked tired and worn down, nothing like the monster that had frightened her earlier.

"You're a man with a purpose and without that purpose, you feel lost. I get that. You care about the people you work with and worry about their safety when you can't be there to help them. I get that too. But what I don't get is why you're so willing to risk backsliding and jeopardizing your recovery."

The ex-op shook his head and shrugged. Like every man she'd ever worked with, he had the innate ability to become obtuse at the most obvious of times.

"You're not eating!" she exclaimed, stopping short of smacking him upside the head. "Now I don't know if the reason is physical, emotional, or a combination of both, and frankly it's none of my business. But if it means saving you from yourself and getting you back out there helping people, then I _will_ make it my business."

John raised an eyebrow. He wasn't used to being spoken to in such a way, and he wasn't sure how to take it.

"Steve's not asking you to eat a three course meal. A bowl of soup. Half a sandwich. Work with him. Tell him what you want. He's not a mind reader, but he is a darn good cook. I'm telling you, that vegetable soup is some of the best I've ever had."

He looked at the still steaming bowl in front of him with more doubt than curiosity.

"Just drink the broth. Make me happy."

Liquids did fare better in his stomach than solid foods. Taking to the spoon, John dipped out a measure of the broth and brought it to his mouth. The flavor was good, and he easily found himself going back for more.

Although she was no closer to knowing the reason behind John's missing appetite, she wasn't discouraged. He wasn't the type to openly share his emotions, but his subtle nonverbal cues told her she had touched on things that were bothering him. She had opened the lines of communication and let him know he wasn't alone in his feelings. It was now up to him to decide what to do next.

"So, did Fusco tell you what the captain caught him doing at the coffee pot the other day?" She was tired of all the serious talk, and she suspected John was too.

He noticeably perked up at the prospect of hearing some dirt on his favorite bumbling detective. "No…"

"Of course not. He wouldn't want you giving him flak about it. Not that you would," she said with a wink. "It was really just a big misunderstanding…"

* * *

By the time Joss completed her story, they were both done with lunch. She was pleased to see John had finished the broth and even eaten a few of the crackers. More importantly, though, she had made him smile. It had been shy and fleeting, but an honest smile nonetheless.

"And if you tell him I told you, I'll never help you get out of another parking ticket again," she threatened.

John shrugged. "Finch can pay them," he said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"Looks like somebody needs a nap."

"I'm not tired."

"Yeah, right. Says the man who can barely keep his eyes open." Joss stood and removed the tray holding the remains of his lunch. "Get some sleep, John. I'll make sure to have a snack ready for when you wake up." She was nearly to the door when he spoke her name. Turning back, she found that his shy grin had returned.

"Thanks."

He didn't say for what, but he didn't need to. "You bet," she replied and left him to rest. Closing the door behind her, Joss walked over to the sink to take care of their lunch dishes.

"I didn't hear any yelling."

Startled, the detective spun around. She hadn't noticed Steve sitting at the small table in the corner of kitchen, hunched over his own bowl of soup.

"The way you two were looking at each other, there should have been yelling. Lots and lots of yelling." He started to bring the spoon to his mouth, then paused and looked at her sideways. "You didn't smother him, did you? I won't blame you if you did."

Joss chuckled. "No, but don't think it didn't cross my mind," she said, joining him at the table.

The doctor nudged a plate with half a sandwich on it in her direction. "I made too much. Help yourself."

"Thanks." She picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The flavors of hearty bread, smoky cheese, and tart apple complimented each other perfectly. "My God. Where'd you learn to cook like this anyway?"

"Med school. My roommates at the time were brilliant academically, but not very creative in the kitchen. I got tired of eating out of vending machines, so I taught myself to cook and used them as guinea pigs."

"You should have been a chef."

"Cooking is a hobby. I could never do it professionally. People are too picky. Speaking of which, did you manage to find where John is hiding his appetite?"

"No. There's definitely something going on, but I couldn't tell you what it is. John's not exactly an open book when it comes to things like that."

"So I gathered. I just hope it resolves itself soon. He's been doing so well. I'd hate to see him start losing condition and slip backwards."

"John won't starve, if that's what you're worried about. He knows how to take care of himself."

"That's part of the problem."

"Why?" she challenged. "Because he's not following your word verbatim?"

"No. He just knows what advice to take and what he can ignore. I'm steering him toward a full recovery, he's trying for a quick one. It doesn't always work that way."

"You don't think it could be something more serious, do you?"

Steve shrugged. "All severe injuries carry that risk. Other than the loss of appetite, he's not showing any other symptoms to indicate there's something physical going on. If we had access to imaging equipment I could rule it out for certain." He thought for a moment. "I know a few people who have access to a private radiology lab upstate. If things don't start to resolve themselves in a few days, I might try to convince Harold to take him in for an MRI, just to be sure."

"In the meantime, can I suggest something that may help?"

"I wish you would."

"Back off a bit, but don't give up on him. He won't come right out and say it, but John's got a lot on his mind right now. That may have something to do with the way he's acting."

"What is it with the strong, silent type anyway?"

"I don't know, but I like dealing with them better than the spineless, whiney type."

"Very true."

Joss finished the last bite of her sandwich and wiped the crumbs from her hands. "So, what'd you make for dessert?"

"Double chocolate brownies with a Kailua ganache. You want one?"

The detective's eyebrows rose. She'd only been kidding. "Yes, please." Joss started to help clear the dishes, but he plucked the plate from her hands and told her to sit. She watched with anticipation as he uncovered a tray of the richest looking brownies she had ever seen. She didn't know where Harold had found the doctor, but he was definitely a rare catch. Despite his reluctance early on, he'd warmed up to the small group nicely.

 _Proof…_ she thought. _That even the direst of circumstances can have a silver lining_ …


	15. Chapter 15

Harold leaned over and turned off the radio as he left the interstate and pulled onto the secondary street that would take him into the country. He was running late. Dealing with the latest Number had proven more difficult than he'd initially thought, and last night had been the first time he'd left John alone with Steve. Not that he hadn't come to trust the doctor by now, he just didn't like leaving his still healing friend alone for very long.

He slowed to a stop at a four-way intersection, before signaling and turning left. The two men had actually been getting along better over the past week. Steve had backed off in his persistence about food, and John's attitude improved with the extra breathing room. He was still eating like a bird, but was making more of an effort to eat something every time the doctor brought him a tray. It wasn't a huge improvement, but at least progress was being made in the right direction.

Several days before, Harold had been certain the tenuous truce between Steve and John had been ruined. He'd been in the kitchen making lunch when he heard the doctor shouting. Hurrying into the recovery room, he was surprised to find that John had disconnected himself from the medical equipment and gotten out of bed. He was pale and looking rather out of sorts, but was managing to remain upright without holding onto anything for support.

Seeing John on his feet for the first time since the accident had made Harold ecstatic, but it was a sentiment he kept to himself. Steve looked angry, upset, and mystified all at the same time. He'd expected the doctor to go off in a threat-laden lecture or at the very least coerce John back into bed, but he did neither. He simply stared at him for a moment, threw up his arms, and left.

"He knows what he's doing," he'd said when Harold found him sitting on the porch a few hours later. He'd expected him to sound angry or even defeated, but not humbled and oddly pleased. "I'll stick around for a few more days just in case he tears something open, but he doesn't need my help anymore."

John had been up and about ever since. He moved slowly and still needed to support his injured side, but he was a far cry from the dying man he and Lionel had encountered on the trail nearly a month ago. Strong willed and stubborn, the ex-op had defied the odds and surprised them all.

Harold was smiling as he turned onto the dirt road leading down to the old farmhouse. He was glad to have his friend back. As his car bumped along the rutted path, he recalled how bleak things looked during that first week after John had been shot. Seeing him so sick and lifeless – a prisoner to the machines and drugs – had been difficult. Even when the odds said they should, no one ever gave up. And because of that, John miraculously came through.

As the faded white building came into view, Harold spotted the two men sitting on the front porch. Bear, who was at John's feet, lifted his head from his paws and watched intently as the car approached. Lionel had dropped him off several days before. Apparently the dog had stopped eating and spent his nights whining pitifully at the front door.

 _Just like his master in more ways than one…_ the hacker thought as he parked his car and stepped out.

"About time you showed up," Steve greeted. "I don't know who was getting more restless: him or the dog." He still wasn't pleased about having Bear around, more so now for the dangerous looks the animal kept giving him than the infection risk. As if reading his mind, the dog looked back at him and yawned, his mouth opening extra wide to show off his collection of sharp teeth.

John poked Bear with his toe to draw his attention away from the doctor. "Run into problems?" he asked as his employer mounted the steps.

"Nothing catastrophic, although for a moment it was close." Harold stripped off his jacket and vest, already starting to perspire in the late morning sun. "The air has warmed up nicely, I see."

"We have lemonade," John offered.

"That would be wonderful."

Both the ex-op and his dog looked over at Steve expectantly. "Doctor?"

"Huh? Oh. I get it. I'm the cook _and_ the servant now," he muttered as he hoisted himself out of his chair.

"I can get it if you'd prefer…"

"Nope. Stay where you are, Harold. I know my place," Steve said, managing to sound both put out and humored at the same time. "Next he'll be demanding French Maid outfits and tea sandwiches..."

"So what happened?" John asked, barely waiting for the door to close behind the doctor.

Harold reached into his jacket and withdrew several pieces of paper. "Helen Lowe," he said, passing him a photograph. "She was an agent with a small insurance firm not far from the Library."

"Was?"

"I seriously doubt she'll ever be gainfully employed again after the stunt she tried to pull."

John looked at the middle-aged woman depicted in the photo. With a cheery smile and laughing eyes, she appeared to be about as harmful as an over exuberant Labrador. In this business however, appearances had a dangerous way of being deceiving. "What'd she do?"

"Attempted to set off several pipe bombs at a local pro-choice rally late yesterday afternoon."

Definitely not what he'd been expecting to hear. "Excuse me?"

"Miss Lowe had several hobbies that filled her spare time. In addition to her book club, yoga class, and various volunteering positions, she was also a key member of her church's pro-life committee. It was a role she took very seriously – too seriously in fact. Detective Fusco pulled her police record and found she had multiple arrests for trespassing and simple assault."

"There are a lot of pro-life activists out there. What triggered The Machine to single her out?"

"Her recent purchase history, I imagine. A search of her credit card history revealed a small shopping spree at a local home improvement warehouse. Lengths of PVC pipe, nails, screws, heavy aluminum sheeting, and bulk packages of razor blades. She'd purchased the explosives several weeks prior from an underground supplier located outside the country. The merchant was nice enough to include a leaflet on the basic construction of compact explosives." He handed John several sheets of paper.

"I've seen IEDs like this before," he said, flipping through the pages of crudely drawn designs. "They're unsophisticated, but effective. A lot of people could have been hurt. How did you stop her from setting them off?"

"I didn't. Detective Carter did. She became involved when I inquired about possible venues Miss Lowe may have been targeting. After reviewing her file, she made the connection between the Number and the pro-choice rally. As these things can often get out of control, the street division had apparently been preparing for the event for weeks.

"Tracking her by her cell phone signal, we were able to pinpoint where she put the bombs and surreptitiously guide officers to their locations. Once they were found, the Bomb Squad was called and the rally was cancelled. Miss Lowe was arrested a short time later while enjoying tea with friends."

"Fingerprint analysis doesn't work that quickly. How did they know who planted the bombs?"

"Surveillance cameras just so happened to be focused on all four locations at the time the bombs were placed."

"Just so happened, huh?"

Harold bristled a bit. "I admit they may have had _some_ help."

"I bet."

"But at least the over two hundred people at the event were spared."

John was looking at the IED plans again, shaking his head. "Why'd she do it?" he muttered, asking more rhetorically than anything.

"According to Detective Carter, Miss Lowe's initial statement was that her church group wasn't being aggressive enough to "stop the sinning" and "save the children." "

"It's a noble fight, but the wrong way to get your point across." John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face.

Harold noticed the dark circles beneath his friend's eyes for the first time. "You look tired, Mr. Reese," he said, taking back the papers he'd given him.

"That's because he should be inside resting, not out here in the heat," Steve said as he came through the door. He passed Harold his drink and set a platter of cookies on the table between the chairs.

The hacker saw his friend close his eyes; it was a gesture he knew well. It wasn't a display of fatigue, but one of defiance, tantamount to a child rolling his eyes.

"Bear wanted to play," John said, picking up one of the tennis balls beside him and tossing it across the lawn. The dog scrambled to his feet and launched off the side of the porch, pursuing the ball as eagerly as he would a perpetrator.

"He fed that thing most of his breakfast, you know," Steve said, taking a bite from one of the cookies.

Harold looked over at John. "Is it true?"

"He was hungry. I wasn't."

"You know I'm trying to get Bear back on his special diet. And you're technically on one too."

"It was just an egg. It's good for his coat."

"That's not the point. Detective Fusco spoiled him with all of that greasy food; it's no wonder the poor animal's digestive tract is in complete disarray."

"A couple of eggs won't hurt him."

"And they wouldn't hurt you either."

Steve watched in amusement as the two men argued like an old married couple. There was no anger behind their words, and he could tell they cared about each other only as good friends do. "I thought you said your appetite would improve once you were up and around?"

"I'm getting there," John insisted, even though it wasn't exactly true. Despite being out of bed, his appetite had yet to return. In fact, he was eating less now than he had been before. There was something about being upright that aggravated his already irritable stomach, especially when it was full. The pains were getting old, and he was growing impatient for that particular part of the recovery process to be over.

"I could always force feed you."

The ex-op straightened from his slouch and came forward in his chair, his demeanor seamlessly taking on an intimidating edge. "I'd like to see you try," he said, leveling his intense gaze on the doctor.

Harold didn't like the shadow that had crossed his partner's face. Given his past and present occupations, John was used to being threatened. In fact, he seemed thrive on it. "Gentlemen, please. This is neither the time nor place for a pissing contest."

Although John settled back into his chair, a hard silence fell between the two men. Thankfully Bear chose that moment to clamber back up the stairs and stand at this master's feet. In addition to the tennis ball John had thrown, he had managed to find three more in the bushes. All four balls were clamped tightly between his jaws; a feat the animal was visibly proud of.

John grinned. "Looks like somebody's been practicing," he said as he removed the drool-coated balls from the dog's mouth.

"Practicing for what?" Steve asked, cringing as John wiped the slime from hands onto his pants.

"They're trying to beat the world record for the most tennis balls held in dog's mouth," Harold explained, watching the heavily panting dog flop down on the porch. "I can't say it's the most useful talent, but I suppose it could be worse."

"He likes the challenge."

"Perhaps that's what you're in need of, John. A good challenge."

Both men looked over at the hacker – John with interest, Steve with skepticism.

"What sort of challenge?" the doctor asked.

"Well, I was thinking John might like to go back to work."

The words had barely left Harold's mouth before the former agent replied. "Yes."

"Now wait a minute…"

"I thought you said I didn't need your help anymore, Doctor?"

"I'm not trying to discredit your recovery, John, because frankly it's been unprecedented," Steve began, choosing to ignore the petulance in the other man's tone. "But you are in no way ready to return to whatever it is you were doing that landed you here in the first place."

"I was actually going to suggest something a bit more benign," Harold said, hoping to defuse the sparks before a full-blown argument could ignite.

Now it was John's turn to become skeptical. Benign meant boring. He had boring. What he wanted was excitement. Something to engage his mind and challenge his wits. But most of all, he wanted his purpose back.

"I was thinking research and, when appropriate, remote surveillance." Harold turned to his friend. "I know it's not your forte, John, but you've done it in the past and proven to be quite proficient at it."

Skepticism became uncertainty. John wasn't a big fan of computers, but he did know how to operate one. Research and surveillance was Harold's job, not his. He didn't have the patience for it. All of the searching, hacking, and waiting – intimidation, artillery, and displays of force were more his style. _And a lot more fun…_

As much as he hated to admit it, Steve was right. He wasn't ready to go back to work, at least not at the capacity he was used to. He weighed his options. There was being bored with _nothing_ to do, or being bored with _something_ to do. And in most cases, something was better than nothing.

"I can set you up with a laptop; you'd be able to access the system from wherever you'd like," Harold said, sensing his partner's reluctance. "Besides, I could really use the help."

That settled it. John looked over at Steve and raised an eyebrow, looking more for his disapproval than consent. When the doctor merely shrugged, he turned back to his employer. "When can I start?" he asked.

Harold grinned.

* * *

Several mornings later, Harold woke to the smell of frying bacon and strong coffee. His stomach rumbled as he dressed and went down to the kitchen where Steve was busy preparing what looked like enough food for a small army – eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, and a tray of muffins. A percolator bubbled with freshly brewed coffee, and a kettle was warming on the stove for tea. Arranged on the small table and adjoining counter, it was a formidable spread indeed.

"My goodness, Dr. Maxwell," Harold said as he took in the sights and smells of the full breakfast. "You've really outdone yourself. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep, so…" His reply tapered off when a timer sounded and he stooped over to get in the oven. From within its depths, he pulled a cast iron skillet holding sizzling hash browns and sausage. "You don't think I made too much, do you?"

Harold looked at the immense amount of food. "Leftovers are never a bad thing."

"Go ahead and take a seat. Things are almost ready – I'm just waiting on the scones. I picked up the paper when I went out to grab a few things at the store. It's a good thing the local market opens at six. We were out of…" He kept talking as he partially disappeared into the refrigerator. "…I could have still made the muffins without it, but they wouldn't have tasted the same. You prefer tea, right?"

"That's correct." He'd barely spoken when a mug of hot water and an assortment of tea bags appeared in front of him. "Thank you. You're sure you chose the right profession, Doctor? You seem to have the gift of culinary creation."

"It's just a hobby."

"I see – that's quite unfortunate." Harold selected one of the tea bags and placed it in the water. While he waited for it to steep, he picked up the paper. After checking the weather, he flipped to the Business section. There was an ongoing segment about artificial intelligence that he found intriguing and he was eager to read the next installment.

A door opened at the end of the hall. Footsteps of both man and beast could be heard scuffing across worn floorboards as they approached the kitchen.

"Morning, John," Harold greeted without looking up from the paper.

"Yeah it is."

It was the weary tone more than the cynical answer that made him look up from his reading. He watched as the other man sank almost painfully in the chair across from him, noting his disheveled appearance. A day's growth of stubble and dark circles beneath his eyes only served to accentuate his overly pale complexion.

"Are you all right?" Harold asked, concern mounting for his friend.

"I'm just tired," he replied, scrubbing a hand across his face.

"Didn't sleep well?"

"Thought I did until I woke up." A plate of food suddenly appeared under his nose. Normally such a hearty breakfast would be a welcomed sight, but not the way he was feeling. John swallowed compulsively to keep his rising stomach at bay. "No, thank you."

"Come on, John," Steve urged. He didn't like the looks of his former patient, but was certain his lack of energy was due to his low caloric intake. "A good meal will perk you right up."

The smell of the rich food making him queasy, John stood up from the table and headed for the door. "I'm taking Bear out," he said, and quickly left with the dog at his heels.

Steve frowned. "Now how long do you suppose that will take?"

"Not long. Bear is usually quite prompt when it comes to such matters." Harold turned back to the paper, but was unable to concentrate. "You seriously didn't expect him to eat all of that, did you?"

"No. But he could have at least tried some of it." The doctor sighed and moved the plate into the oven to keep the food warm.

"He's certainly not himself this morning," the hacker uttered. "I hope he's all right."

"We all have bad days," Steve replied, placing a loaded plate in front of Harold before settling down with one if his own. "He needs to start building his strength up again. I'm telling you: a solid meal like this one is just what the doctor ordered." Either missing his own joke or ignoring it on purpose, he took his own section of the paper and began to read. If the doctor was concerned about John's odd behavior, he surely hid it well.

Harold tried his best to follow suit, but found he couldn't concentrate on the words in front of him. Even the food tasted flat, which he knew shouldn't be the case. In between chewing and rereading the same paragraph over and over, he kept sneaking looks at the door, expecting John to appear at any moment. He held out for nearly fifteen minutes before he was unable to wait any longer. _Bear never takes this long…_

"Excuse me a moment," the hacker said, plucking the napkin from his lap and going to the door. Pulling it open and stepping outside, he didn't have to look far to find his partner.

John was sitting in one of the heavy wooden chairs on the porch. His head was resting back against the side of the house and his eyes were closed. The early morning sun made him appear even paler than in the house, and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth spoke of an undisclosed discomfort.

"It's a beautiful morning," Harold said, sitting down beside his friend and breathing in the fresh air. "The paper says it's going to be a warm one with possible storms this evening. I suppose we've been lucky thus far and we do need the rain."

John didn't respond to the small talk, and Harold didn't expect him to. He watched as Bear rolled merrily in the dew-covered grass for a minute before speaking again. "What's going on, Mr. Reese?"

"Just something that's part of the healing process, Finch."

"You forget that's a topic I am intimately familiar with," Harold reminded him gently.

John opened his eyes and looked at him sideways. He'd become so used to his employer's limp, the cause of it rarely crossed his mind anymore. "I'm just sore today," he admitted, his arm unconsciously slipping down to hold his injured side.

"Is it bad?"

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "On top of little sleep, I'm in no mood to deal with Dr. Pop N Fresh right now."

"Is Bear keeping you awake?" Harold asked, knowing from experience how loudly the dog could snore.

"Bear's fine. I think I rolled over on my bad side during the night. I guess it's still too soon to be doing that."

The two men watched in companionable silence as the Malinois chased a zigzagging butterfly across the lawn. Seemingly smarter than the dog, the butterfly gracefully squirted upward every time the canine's jaws came within reach.

"He has a marginally better chance of catching his own tail."

"Don't spoil his fun, Finch."

The front door opened a short time later and Steve stepped out onto the porch. "The foods getting cold. Is everything all right out here?"

When John didn't offer to answer the question, Harold decided to do it for him. "John's a bit sore this morning."

"Is it an ache or sharp pains?" the doctor asked, showing his concern for the first time.

"Just an ache. I think I rolled over on my side last night."

"That would do it," Steve agreed. "I can get you something for it if you'd like."

John shook his head. "It's not that bad."

"Let me know if you change your mind." Now that he knew the man was sore and not just being stubborn, he was less inclined to push him to eat. "You look tired. Maybe you should head back to bed and get a few more hours of sleep."

"Something might come up."

"Nothing that I can't handle, John," Harold assured him. "Go get some sleep. I can take care of things for awhile."

Lacking the energy or motivation to argue further, John stood with a fleeting grimace and headed for the door.

Harold was about to offer to look after Bear when the dog shot up the steps and followed his associate into the house. He knew his alpha wasn't feeling well, and he wasn't going to let him out of his sight for long.

"Do you believe John is still just having a bad day?" the hacker asked when things fell quiet again.

"If he really did roll onto his injured side, it would certainly explain why he's sore. By now his ribs have knit and his torn muscles and tissues have healed over, but they're apt to be tender for a while yet. If we had access to lab services, I'd be able to run blood tests to check his general health. He's been progressing well, but technically he's still within the time frame when complications can develop."

 _Complications…_ Harold thought. _And here I've been allowing myself to naively think that he was in the clear…_ "Perhaps I should change my plans in order stay with him today."

Steve shook his head. "Don't bother. John will be fine after he gets a few hours of sleep. Besides, I'm not going anywhere, so I can keep an eye on him."

Harold began mentally ticking off the things he needed to do, rearranging them and omitting the tasks that could wait. He figured he could go and be back by late afternoon, assuming a Number didn't come up along the way. "I'd best be going then. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can return."

"You can't leave yet – you haven't finished breakfast. I didn't make all that food just for it to go waste."

The hacker looked at his watch. "I really should get going…"

"Twenty minutes – that's all I ask."

Less resistant to supplication than his colleague, Harold conceded to the other man's wishes. "Twenty minutes."

"Terrific," Steve said, heading back inside. "Now you can try the vanilla, cheddar cheese scones I made."

Harold balked at the door. _What have I just gotten myself into?_


	16. Chapter 16

A day early - plans for tomorrow. Thanks to everyone who's been reading and those who have taken a moment to review :)

* * *

It was just starting to rain when Harold pulled his car to a stop in front of the farmhouse. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and an occasional flash of blue lightening streaked across the night sky. Securing his hat on his head, he limped quickly across the driveway and up the stairs to the covered porch. He was reaching for the front door when the clouds opened up and torrential rain began to fall. Stepping into the foyer of the house, he had to literally pull the door shut behind him as a gust of wind tried to yank it from his hands. The forecast for storms had been right after all.

With the weather safely sealed out, Harold removed his wet jacket and hat and stepped out of his shoes. Except for a couple of small lights, the house was dark. The air still smelled of the fantastic breakfast Steve had prepared, and he was quite certain the fridge would be in possession of the leftovers.

He found the quiet darkness of the house to be strange. He was back later than he'd anticipated, but it was still relatively early. He'd spent the day running errands and had been on his way back to his car when a pay phone rang as he walked by. The Machine was calling in to report a Number.

It had taken him several hours to identify the person –Wendy Sampson, a 44-year-old computer programmer from lower Manhattan – and to research enough information to figure out why The Machine had singled her out. Although the case looked pretty straightforward – a staggering amount of credit card debt and a recent increase to her husband's life insurance premium – he still passed it on to Detective Fusco. He was far too distracted to be working even the simplest cases and needlessly endangering himself or an innocent Number.

"John? Dr. Maxwell?" Setting aside his briefcase, the hacker made his way toward the back of the house, hoping to find out where the others were. He hadn't heard from either of them all day and was anxious to see how his friend was feeling. A light leeching from beneath the door to the recovery room caught his eye. He tapped on it gently. "John?"

The door creaked open and Steve poked his head out. "You can come in, but keep your voice down."

"Is everything all right?" Harold asked as he stepped into the dimly lit room. John, buried beneath an unusually heavy blanket for the warm night, was asleep in bed. Except for a slight flush high along his cheekbones, the man's complexion was still unnaturally pale. Bear lay on his own bed in the corner, his ears and eyes trained on his master.

"He developed a low grade fever earlier this afternoon," Steve explained quietly as he fastened a blood pressure cuff around John's arm. "Acetaminophen didn't touch it. I just gave him something a little stronger – it should make him more comfortable and help him sleep too."

"What do you think it is?"

"It's possible that it's just fatigue, but I'm not taking any chances," Steve said as he pulled on a stethoscope. "His missing appetite, the pain, the fever – I'm starting to lean more toward an infection at this point. I dosed him with a broad spectrum antibiotic in hopes that it will knock down anything nasty before it has a chance to really get going."

Harold watched as the doctor took his friend's blood pressure, then listened to his heart and breathing.

"His numbers are all elevated, but that's not uncommon with a fever." He jotted down the results on the clipboard beside the bed and motioned for the hacker to follow him out of the room. "He'll need another dose of antibiotics in a few hours. Otherwise he should sleep through the night."

"Thank you, Doctor for being here."

Steve shrugged. "Hey, I want to see him get better too. Treating him has reminded me why I chose medicine in the first place. And that despite the stress and frustration it can bring, I miss it."

"Then I have something you'll definitely want to see." Harold retuned to the kitchen to get his briefcase. He withdrew three envelopes from the main compartment and handed them to the doctor. "I want to give you these before I forget."

"What are they?" Steve looked at the envelopes, finding that they were addressed to him.

"Job offers," Harold replied. "I took the liberty of updating and submitting your résumé to several contacts I have within the medical field. I'm still waiting to hear back from some of them, but I thought you'd like to see these ones right away."

"They've been opened."

"Of course. I didn't want to deliver you bad news, not that I expected there to be any."

"Orlando Regional, Rocky Mountain Regional…" Steve's eyes widened as he read the return address on the last one. "Stanford Hospital. Stanford? Seriously?"

"They're all interested in you, Dr. Maxwell. Your credentials, experience, and education all make you highly desirable in your field. All are top paying and willing to offer relocation assistance."

"You're assuming I'm willing to relocate. I still have an apartment lease to deal with."

"Actually, you don't." Harold reached into his pocket and took out a single key. "I also took the liberty of closing out your lease and having your belongings relocated to a secure storage facility. I hope you don't mind."

Steve took the key and looked at it. Now he had no job or place to live. "You're an awfully presumptuous man, Harold."

"And you, Dr. Maxwell, are a man with skills that should not be wasted. You've been living a life of misery for the last five years because of a bureaucratic cover up. I'm giving you the chance to make things right. Take it, and go live the life you should have been living all along. You, the medical field, and the people you help will all benefit greatly."

Steve looked down at the envelopes and key again. He was literally holding his future in his hands. It was both powerful and disconcerting at the same time.

"I strongly recommend the Stanford position," Harold said, hoping to give the overwhelmed man some guidance. "They're all Level One trauma centers, but Stanford offers the most comprehensive package, including the opportunity to teach, if you so desire. I can help you arrange phone and video conferences with the directors if you'd like – they're all eager to speak with you."

"Let me sleep on it," the doctor replied, still looking at the items in his hands.

"Speaking of which, I'd like to stay up with John tonight – in case he needs something."

"I was going to do it."

"You were up early making that first class breakfast. It's the least I can do. Besides," Harold tipped his head toward the envelopes in the other man's hand. "You have much to consider."

Steve sighed and nodded. "If anything changes or you get tired, let me know. I'll be by in a few hours to give him another round of antibiotics anyway." The doctor went to leave, then paused and turned back. "Thanks," he said, holding up the items he'd been given.

"My pleasure, Doctor," Harold replied. "My pleasure indeed."

* * *

A sharp crack of thunder shook the house and rattled the windows. Harold nearly came out of his chair, disorientated by the deafening sound and dazzling flash of blue lightening that followed. He didn't remember falling asleep, and it took a minute for him to realize where he was and why. He turned around to see if the storm had woken John, and was surprised to find him sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Mr. Reese?"

John sat hunched over with his head down and an arm wrapped his injured side. Even though there was little light in the room, Harold could see the sheen of sweat on the other man's skin and the unusually fast rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. Something was definitely wrong.

"Mr. Reese? Are you okay?" Harold took a few steps toward his friend but stopped when he heard a distressed whine come from the darkness beside him. "Bear?"

The dog was huddled in the corner. His back was arched like a startled cat and his tail was tucked between his legs. For as ferocious of a guard dog as he could be, he was terrified of thunderstorms.

"You're fine, Bear." Normally he'd take more time to console the insecure animal, but at the moment he had more important matters to attend to. Turning his attention back to John, the hacker tried once again to reach is friend. "Mr. Reese? What's wrong? John, are you all right?"

"You can keep asking questions, but I won't tell you anything."

The iciness of his associate's voice made Harold's blood run cold. What was he talking about?

"John, it's me – Harold. You're…"

"I don't care who you are." John looked up. His eyes were black and predatory. "No one's going to recognize you when I'm through with you anyway."

The hacker took a step back. John was either caught in the grips of a flashback or some fever-induced nightmare. Harold knew he had to be careful. Even sick the man had the potential to be lethal. He'd have no chance of escaping if he inadvertently provoked him in his current state.

"Mr. Reese, listen to me. You're sick. You have a fever and you're not thinking straight. I want to help you. Please, John…"

John chuckled. It was a flat, humorless sound. "Help me? Is that what you want to do? I don't think you realize who you're talking to."

"Believe me, Mr. Reese, I know exactly _who_ I'm talking to. I'm talking to a good man who takes pride in helping people and stopping those who mean to do harm to others."

The response threw the delirious man for a loop. This wasn't how interrogations were supposed to go. Was this man telling him the truth or was it a ruse to get him to talk? John pressed his hand against his aching forehead. He was so confused.

Harold didn't like how John looked. Sweat was pouring down his face and neck, soaking into his collar, and turning his gray shirt almost black. He was shaking and appeared to be unsteady even though he was sitting down. Whatever the doctor had given him clearly wasn't working.

"Would you like some water, Mr. Reese?" he offered, slowly reaching for the glass and pitcher beside the bed.

"So you can poison me?"

The hacker poured a small amount of liquid into the glass and held it out, hoping the dim lights would keep John from seeing the tremor in his hand. "Not at all. I just thought you might like a drink."

"Go to hell."

Unwilling to perpetuate his delusion any longer, Harold did the only thing he could think of to snap his friend out of it. He threw the contents of the glass in his face.

With a startled cry, John reeled back so abruptly he nearly went off the other side of the bed. Grabbing at his face, he struggled to wipe away what his confused mind insisted was acid.

"It's just water, Mr. Reese. You're all right. I would never hurt you. Please clam down, you're scaring Bear," Harold pleaded. "And me."

Whether it was the shock of the ice water or his flashback was finally coming to an end, his efforts to dry his face gradually seized. Lying on his back and gasping for air, John watched as the nightmare that had enveloped him faded away, leaving behind a dismal sense of shame. He cursed to himself.

"Mr. Reese?"

Or at least he thought he did. "Finch?"

"I'm here. Are you back with me, John?"

He nodded. "Sorry I went dark side on you, Harold."

"No harm done, Mr. Reese. You're not exactly feeling yourself at the moment."

"That's no excuse." He shifted and tried to sit up, but stopped when fiery pain lanced through his side. "Ouch."

Seeing the reaction to raw pain flash across his friend's face, Harold put a hand on his shoulder. "Lay still. I'm going to go get Dr. Maxwell."

John sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment before slowly releasing it through his nose. His body was racing and it wasn't responding to his attempts to calm it down.

He tried focusing on the sounds of the intense storm outside. Thunder and lightening waged war in the sky, the wind howled, and torrents of rain pelted the side of the house. It was a small wonder they still had electricity.

A pathetic whine from within the room startled him. Lifting his head, he saw a familiar form huddled in the corner. "Bear," he said. "Come."

His body close to the ground, the dog started forward only to be scared back to the corner by another crack of thunder. He barked once, a high-pitched sound that expressed both his insecurity and frustration.

John sat up with a grunt and scrubbed a hand across his face. He felt like he'd been hit, dragged, and run over by a truck. "Come on, Bear," he said, patting his knee. "You're fine. It's just a thunderstorm." When the dog refused to budge, he changed tactics. "Komen!" (come)

Conditioned to obey the Dutch commands, Bear left the safety of the corner and walked skittishly toward his master. As John leaned forward to touch him, a sharp pain tore through his injured side. Doubling over, he dropped to floor and tried not to throw up at the dog's feet.

 _This shouldn't be happening…_ The pain was similar to what he'd felt when the bolt's mechanical head had snapped open on the trail. Shaking, sweating, and dizzy, John knew he was slipping into shock; what he didn't know was why. He wasn't bleeding or broken anywhere, and the pain – although severe – wasn't intolerable. Something was wrong.

He felt himself starting to fade. Desperate to ground himself to something tangible, he reached out for Bear and buried his fingers into his short coat. Sensing his distress, the animal moved closer. The last thing John felt before the darkness claimed him was Bear lying down at his side, exchanging his role as a fierce guard dog for that of a reassuring sentry.

* * *

"John? John? Can you hear me?"

John awoke to the sound of Harold yelling in his ear. He wanted to respond, to tell him to stop shouting, but all he could manage was an unintelligible groan.

"Is he coming out of it?" He heard Steve ask.

"He seems to be trying," Harold replied. "He's shaking quite badly. With the amount of heat he's putting off, I seriously doubt he's cold."

"He's pretty shocky at the moment. Probably a combination of the fever and whatever foolish thing he did to wind up on the floor."

"I thought this looked awfully familiar. You don't think he hurt himself, do you?"

"I didn't feel anything suspicious. I suppose there could be something…"

The rest of the doctor's response was lost in a deafening clash of thunder. When the resounding grumbles subsided, a fearful whine became audible. John immediately knew the source.

"Bear."

"John?"

He opened his eyes to find both Harold and Steve looming over him. It took him a moment to remember he was on the floor, a vulnerable position that he didn't like. "He's afraid of the storm."

"I know he is. Frankly I'm surprised he's not under the bed." The hacker looked over at the stressed animal in the corner. "Is he the reason you're on the floor?"

The ex-op nodded. "He was whining. I sat up and reached out to pet him." He recalled how sudden and sharp the pain in his side had been. "Not one of my better moves."

"How's the pain now, John?" Steve asked.

"Not as bad."

"Well that's good," Harold said, continuing cautiously when he saw the doctor frown. "Isn't it?"

"Not necessarily."

The hacker waited for him to elaborate, and was surprised when he didn't. _What's he not telling me and why?_

"Okay, John. Let's get you back in bed; I want to take a better look at you. Harold, can you give me a hand?"

"Of course."

"Let's sit him up first – nice and slow."

The two men gripped John under his arms and sat him up. His vision clouded with dizziness, but it quickly cleared as his body grew accustomed to the new position. They were preparing to lift him to his feet when another clap of thunder rattled the house. The lights blinked twice before going out completely, plunging the room into darkness.

"What the hell just happened?" Steve asked.

"The storm knocked out the electricity," Harold replied. He released his grip on John's arm and reached into his pocket to for his phone. A few keystrokes later, the small screen lit up with a greenish blue glow. "I admit this is one scenario I didn't anticipate."

"Did this place come with a generator?"

"I don't know. I never thought to look. I suppose there could be one in the shed outback or perhaps the basement."

"All right. One of us can go look when we're finished here."

John tried to help as they lifted him to his feet and then onto the mattress, his legs weak and unsteady. He hated being sick; the limitations it put on his body made him feel even worse. By the time he was back under the covers, his reserved strength was drained and a burning ache had awoken in his side. He closed his eyes, anxious to block out the misery that was descending on him.

Even in the low light, Steve saw him grimace. Either he was in more pain then he was letting on, or he'd aggravated something during the move. Based on what he knew of John, he suspected it was a little of both.

"I'm going to give you something to help with the pain and fever, but I want to look you over first. Can you bear with me for a few minutes?"

John nodded, but didn't open his eyes. He was already applying his own method of pain control and it required his full concentration. When introduced to the technique of visualization, he'd learned most people chose to envision themselves on a warm beach, a sunny meadow, or on a breath taking mountain ridge. For him, visualization wasn't so much about the place; it was the task he preformed when he got there.

Now, as he tried to shut out his discomfort and the activities of the two men around him, John drifted to a place he felt safe and comfortable: the Library. Spread out before him were some of his most prized weapons – several custom handguns, a sleek sniper rifle, and a grenade launcher. He was caring for them – disassembling, cleaning, oiling, and reassembling – as lovingly as gardener would tend to their favorite bed of flowers. He was at peace here; all of the pain and unease of reality were no more than a distant thought.

So effective was this method, that he had nearly fallen asleep when an intolerable amount of pressure was placed on his injured side. Still half embroiled in the world of his own creation, instinct and training automatically kicked in. Without opening his eyes, he reached out and seized the offending hand and twisted. Hard.

Steve yelped. "Ouch! Hey!"

He was already starting to coil his body in order to swing a leg around his aggressor's neck when he heard Harold shout his name.

"John! Let the doctor go."

John immediately loosened his grip opened his eyes. In the ghostly glow of the cell phone's light, he could see Steve standing beside him, cautiously flexing his right wrist.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Harold asked.

"No – he startled me more than anything. You didn't tell me he had lightening fast reflexes."

"I honestly didn't think it was necessary." He turned to his partner. "John, what were you thinking? You nearly broke Dr. Maxwell's wrist."

"Don't be hard on him, Harold, it's all right. It was my fault – I should have warned him what I was about to do," Steve said, pulling the covers up around his patient. Even though the room was warm, he added an extra blanket to help combat his fever induced shivers.

"I didn't mean…"

"Don't worry about it, John. No harm done, see?" The doctor held up his right hand and wiggled his fingers. The other man didn't look convinced, but he doubted there was anything he could say to dissuade his guilt. "Harold, I need to grab a few things. Can I borrow your light for a minute?"

When the hacker relinquished his phone, the back half of the room was plunged into darkness. Finding it claustrophobic, he sought out his laptop and cued up a program similar to the one on his phone. A warm green light flashed on the screen and illuminated a large portion of the room. Turning around, he was surprised to find Bear had snuck by and gone over to the bed. John was absently rubbing the dog's ears and staring vacantly up at the ceiling.

"I'm beginning to think Bear's been training you this whole time, John, and not the other way around," he said, setting the makeshift light on the bedside table. "Pretty soon you'll be the one holding tennis balls in your mouth." He thought he saw the barest of smiles flicker across his friend's lips, but it was difficult to tell in the low light.

"Now that's something I'd _pay_ to see," Steve said, returning with the items he'd gotten from the supply cabinets. He looked down at his patient. John appeared to have calmed some, but was still noticeably distressed. "How are you doing, John?"

"Just having a bad night."

"I'm going to try to make things a little better for you, okay?"

The ex-op nodded and shut his eyes, his right hand continuing to caress Bear's soft ears.

"Harold, I need you to hold the light for me. I want to start an IV and get some fluids and pain meds going."

The hacker came around the bed and reclaimed his phone, directing the light per the doctor's instructions. "Any thoughts as to what may be wrong?"

Steve lifted John's left arm out from under the blankets and began searching for a vein. His skin had the unnatural warmth of a low-grade fever, uncomfortable, but not yet high enough to be dangerous. "His symptoms are indicative of an abscess, probably caused by irritation from the internal stitches. I didn't feel anything suspicious before he grabbed me, but the abscess may be too small or deep to detect."

His thumb over the vein he intended to use, Steve used his teeth to pluck the cap off the needle. "You're going to feel a stick, John," he warned, not wanting to risk startling the man again. John never flinched as he slid the IV catheter into place and anchored it with tape. "I'm going to try a different antibiotic – something stronger than what I gave him earlier. Hopefully it'll beat this back enough so his body's own defenses can take care of the rest."

Harold watched the doctor push the contents of two syringes through the IV line before connecting it to a drip. As the drugs made their way into John's system, the hand stroking Bear's head gradually slowed and stopped.

Confused, the dog looked up at his master and whined. When John didn't respond, he turned to Harold and cocked his head. "It's all right, Bear. He's just sleeping."

The Malinois whined and licked his alpha's still hand before resting his head on top of it. It was the sort of thing that both warmed and saddened the heart to see.

"That should keep him comfortable for a few hours," Steve said as he fitted John with a nasal cannula. Luckily the house possessed an auxiliary oxygen system, one that would run without electricity. "One of us needs to check for a generator. Out here in the sticks, who knows when we'll get the power back on."

"According to the electrical company's website, a utility pole was struck by lightening less than a mile south of here. There are about twelve hundred residences without electricity in the area," Harold reported, scanning the information on his phone. "They estimate the outage to be resolved within six to twelve hours."

Steve frowned. With a sick patient to look after, he really didn't like the idea of being in the dark for that long. "Electricity isn't critical at the moment, but it might be later. How long will your gizmos work as lights?"

"Several hours and I have a rapid charger in the car. You stay here with John. I'll go see if I can find a generator or at least some flashlights," Harold said, cueing up the light app on his phone again. "The worst of the storm appears to be over. Would you like to come, Bear?"

The dog briefly swiveled his pointed ears in Harold's direction, but his eyes never left John's face. Clearly he'd decided his place was at his master's side.

Harold made to leave, but paused when he reached the door. "Doctor, I feel there's something you're not telling me," he said, unable to shake his uneasy feeling from earlier. "Is there?"

"I have my concerns," he admitted quietly, joining him at the door.

"Such as?"

"I don't want to worry you."

"And I'd rather not be blindsided, Dr. Maxwell."

 _Fair enough…_ "All abscesses carry the risk of rupturing. This usually isn't a problem if the abscess is small; the immune system can handle it with the help of antibiotics. It's when the immune system is compromised or the abscess is large that we start to see problems. Infectious material floods the body, invades the bloodstream, and starts shutting down vital organs. A patient can become septic within a matter of hours and often times you can't bring them out of it."

Suddenly Harold found himself wishing he hadn't asked. "What makes you think this has happened to John?"

"When you came to get me, you said he was in obvious pain. When I asked him about it, he said it was getting better. Now with an abscess, a sudden decrease in pain is a red flag for a rupture, as are the elevated vital signs."

"You said that was from the fever."

"I said it _could_ be from the fever."

"He was doing so well," Harold muttered. "How could this have happened?"

Steve shrugged. "Sometimes internal stitches don't dissolve like they're supposed to. The body sees them as a threat and attacks them. Or, since John was so anxious to get on his feet, he could have caused irritation and inflammation that led to the immune response. Or, your dog could have brought in a normally harmless contagion that caused John's weakened system to overact. Or…"

The hacker held up his hand. "I get the point, Doctor."

"I'm not trying to discourage you, Harold. I'm trying to prepare you. John beat the odds with his injury, but if I'm right an he does have an abscess that's ruptured, it could kill him."

Harold looked over at his sleeping friend; his pale face turned a sickly green by the glow of the laptop's light. "There's nothing more you can do for him?"

Steve shook his head. "Until we know if this new antibiotic is going to work, all I can do is keep him comfortable by managing his pain and fever. If he doesn't show improvement within the next twelve hours or he deteriorates further, I may have to open him up to see if I can find the source of the infection. Assuming, of course, we get the lights back on."

"Then I'd best go see if I can find a way to remedy that." Leaving the doctor in the doorway, Harold headed for the basement, the total darkness of the house only adding to his renewed feelings of concern, dismay, and discouragement.


	17. Chapter 17

This is a beast of a chapter. I had to set it up this way in order to post the final two sections together next week. Enjoy

* * *

 _Okay, this isn't good…_ Steve didn't like what he saw as he slowly drew back the plunger on the syringe. Greenish yellow pus streaked with traces of old and fresh blood filled the metered reservoir. It was exactly what he'd expected to find, and exactly what he'd hoped he wouldn't. John's suspected abscess had indeed ruptured, and the infection was too great for his body to cope with on its own.

He felt John tense as he withdrew the large gauge needle from his side and covered the resulting hole with a piece of gauze. "Sorry, John," he uttered, apologizing for both the pain he'd caused him and for not having prevented this likely lethal complication. _If he had just gone to a hospital…none of this would have happened… No – that's not true. It still could have happened, but it would have been caught sooner…_

He'd discovered an abnormal firmness in the man's left side during a reassessment of his condition. Less than an hour later, his fever spiked and the warning signs of shock appeared. Despite the aggressive treatment with antibiotics, the infection was strengthening and rapidly taking over.

Steve pulled the blankets back over his patient and headed for the supply cabinets. He had to act quickly. With a belly full of infected material, it wouldn't be long before John became septic. And if that happened, they would lose him for sure.

 _I should have cut into him sooner…_ he thought as he sifted through the bags of sterilized surgical instruments. _When we found him on the floor…I should have done it then…I should have listened to my gut like I always used to do…I shouldn't have waited…_

The doctor was elbow deep in one of the upper cupboards when the lights dimmed and pulsed for several seconds before returning to full strength. The electricity was still out; luckily Harold had found a generator in the backyard. It wasn't powerful enough to run the entire house, but the basics were better than relying on flashlights and lugging water from the well.

"I understand, Detective."

Steve paused briefly when he heard Harold outside the door. He'd asked him to see if one of his contacts could hook him up with an antibiotic that he didn't have on hand. The drug was difficult to acquire outside of a hospital setting because of its potency, but it routinely got results when all others failed.

"All right. I'll let you know if things change."

"Bad news?" he asked, as Harold stepped into the room.

"Somewhat."

"You couldn't get the medication?"

"No, no, I got it. It'll be available for pick up at the drugstore in town by noon. I had just hoped one of the detectives could retrieve and deliver it here directly. Unfortunately, they're both working a double homicide and can't get away," he explained, wondering briefly if the crime could have been prevented if he'd made himself available to The Machine. "I hate to leave John right now, but I think it would be faster if I went myself."

"Probably, but I need your help first," Steve said, walking past him with several items in his arms.

Harold instantly recognized two of the items as a portable defibrillator and an Ambu-Bag. "Doctor?"

"Calm down," he replied, hearing the anxiety rise in his voice. "I don't anticipate needing either of these, but I also don't want to be searching for them if we do."

Harold glanced over his shoulder at John. He'd been out of the room for less than fifteen minutes, but his friend appeared to have worsened in that short amount of time. He was reminded of the night of the accident and how awful he'd looked when he and Lionel had found him. Except for the flush from the fever, John had that same look now: exhausted, hurting, and on the edge of checking out. Permanently. "What's going on?"

"There's no doubt John has a ruptured abscess – I just siphoned a quarter cup of pus and blood from his abdomen," Steve explained, drawing the contents of several vials he'd taken from the drug cabinet into syringes. "Antibiotics alone aren't going to be enough. We've got to get this stuff out of him now."

"What can I do?"

"I'm going to need you to monitor John. I don't trust the generator to run any of the medical equipment; the power fluxes could cause them to give false readings or malfunction. It's another reason why I pulled out the backup resuscitation equipment." He paused a moment to look at the supplies he'd gathered. Satisfied he had everything, he grabbed the loaded syringes and headed for John. "Wash your hands and glove up. We can't afford to waste time."

Harold went to the sink and waited for the water to warm before submerging his hands. "This all sounds rather risky, Doctor."

"It is," Steve openly admitted. He finished administering the drugs and moved onto exchanging the nasal cannula for an oxygen mask. "But it's one we can't afford not to take."

The hacker stretched a pair of gloves over his damp hands and waited anxiously while the doctor made his final checks. What ever he'd given his partner had worked fast. John's breathing had noticeably slowed, and the pain lines had gone from his face. "Is he all right?"

"He's asleep. Not as deep as I'd like, but anymore and we run the risk of depressing his breathing too much. Do you remember how to take vital signs?"

"Of course."

"Good." Steve handed him his stethoscope. "I want readings pulled every three minutes. It won't be as accurate as real-time monitoring, but it'll still give us a heads up if something starts to go wrong."

As Harold positioned himself to best gather the requested readings, he looked toward the back corner where Bear's bed was located. The dog was sitting rigidly and panting, stressed by the feeling of urgency in the room. He didn't doubt the animal would have rather faced down a dozen thugs than see his alpha in the condition he was in now. The hacker couldn't have agreed more.

"The sedative I gave him is fast acting," the doctor explained from the sink. He'd wiped down John's side with iodine and isolated the surgical site with a blue-green drape. "So he should recover from it fairly quickly."

"He's not going to feel anything, is he?" Harold asked, the terrible thought abruptly coming to mind.

"It's unlikely, but even if he does, he won't remember it."

Although he knew the doctor's comment was meant to be reassuring, Harold found it to be the furthest thing from it.

Wearing gloves and mask, Steve rolled his tray of tools over to the side of the bed using his elbows. "You ready?" he asked.

The hacker nodded and purposely looked away as the doctor began to work. He'd seen so much of John's blood over the past month; he didn't think he could stomach seeing anymore. He kept his focus on his associate the entire time, trying to ignore the occasional utterance or curse coming from Steve. Except for a sporadic hitch in his breathing, John's vital signs remained relatively even and strong.

It was about halfway through the procedure when the suction unit Steve was using made a stuttering, sucking noise.

"What was that?"

"I don't know. It sounds like something is impeding the suction hose." The doctor withdrew the narrow tube from within his patient and found a small piece of debris lodged in the opening. Expecting it to be soft like a blood clot or mass of stitching material, he was surprised when it turned out to be hard between his fingers. "Hmm."

Harold snatched a glance in Steve's direction, but quickly looked away again when he saw the red on his gloves. "What is it?"

"I don't know." Steve went to the sink and carefully rinsed the item off for a better look. What he saw made him feel like he'd been sucker punched in the stomach. He swore.

"What?" Harold demanded, feeling like a broken record of questions.

The doctor held out his hand. At first he couldn't figure out what he was showing him. No bigger than his smallest fingernail, the object was irregular in shape, and except for some residual blood, was mostly a yellowish white in color. Its numerous points were blunted, except one. It was clearly made of a different material and still looked razor sharp. "Is that…bone?" he tentatively asked.

Steve nodded. "It's rib bone. And I'd bet anything that sharp piece is a tip off the bolt that struck him."

Even with his face mostly hidden behind a surgical mask, Harold could still tell the doctor was both angry and sickened. "This caused John's abscess?"

"And his pain. And his anorexia." Steve dropped the object into a small dish and tossed it disgustedly on the counter. "And I'm responsible for leaving it in him."

"Not on purpose."

"No. But that doesn't matter. Every time he ate, his stomach would expand right into it. I thought he was just being difficult. No wonder there's so much inflammation and old blood." He shook his head. "My first case in five years and I screw it up. How could I do such a thing?"

"You were working in less than ideal circumstances, Doctor. You had only the basic tools, no access to imaging equipment, no competent help…"

"I had everything I needed."

"If this is anyone's fault, it's mine for not taking John to a hospital as you told me I should on numerous occasions. I understand your guilt, Doctor Maxwell, but this is not your fault. This was a random mistake."

"Yeah, a mistake. Just like giving that man the wrong blood?"

"That wasn't your fault either. Had you suspected the lab was careless, would you have still given it to him?"

"No."

"If you had suspected there were fragments leftover from the accident, would you have sewn John back together?"

"No!"

"Then this is not your fault."

"It could still cost John his life."

"Lives are taken everyday by choice, chance, and careless decisions. You didn't choose for this to happen and you certainly haven't been careless. Therefore this is a chance. And, as with all chances, there's the possibility that the outcome will differ from the one you anticipate."

Steve slowly shook his head. His mind was racing, going back to the night when he first met the two men and pieced John back together in the back of an ambulance. He knew he'd done everything possible with the resources he'd had to save the man's life. There were no shortcuts or sloppy risks taken, and when he'd closed John up, he'd felt he'd done his best with what he'd been given.

 _I didn't leave the fragment behind on purpose, but…_ "An x-ray or MRI would have instantly picked it up. I could have prevented this."

"But it wasn't your negligence that caused it," Harold insisted. "You did the best you could with what you were given before; and that's all I'm asking you to do again."

Steve looked over at John. The man was still deeply asleep, but he knew he wouldn't be for much longer. The sedative was fast acting and short lived, and given how sick he was, he didn't want to risk a second dose. His crisis of conscience would have to wait until later.

Sighing, he tugged off his gloves, washed his hands, and pulled on a new pair. "I've pretty much cleaned out all of the infection. Now I just need to flush everything with an antiseptic solution and install a drain like I did last time. How's he doing?"

Harold quickly took his partner's blood pressure, pulse, and respiration rate. "No change."

"Good. Let's hope he stays that way." Pushing his worries, guilty feelings, and questions about his own resolve aside, Steve reached for the bottle of antibacterial solution and settled back into work.

* * *

The click of toenails and an anxious whine pulled Harold's attention away from his computer. Looking up from the screen, he found the Malinois standing halfway between him and the bed.

"What is it, Bear?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Whining softly, the dog looked back over his shoulder at the still figure in the bed.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold said, leaving his improvised desk and making his way across the room. John was once again in need of constant supervision, and it was his turn to sit with the ailing man.

"John?" he said, putting the bedside lamp on its lowest setting. After the flashback he'd witnessed the day before, Harold was more cautious how he approached the former operative. "Are you all right?"

John's discomfort was evident even in the low light. He was sweating heavily, and a near constant tremor shook his body. A three-way war between the infection, the antibiotic, and his immune system was underway, and there was no way to tell which side was winning.

Power had been restored to the house the previous afternoon, and one look at the vitals readout told Harold pretty much everything he needed to know. Between the infection, the pain from the surgery, and the side effects from the antibiotics, John was a wreck. Despite the drugs and efforts to bring down his fever, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the man comfortable for any length of time.

Harold took the aural thermometer from the bedside table and pressed it against John's ear. The small machine vibrated briefly before beeping and flashing a number on its digital screen. The hacker frowned. Setting the gadget aside, he reached for the cloth he had soaking in a dish of cold water, rang it out, and placed it against his associate's forehead. He felt John shrink back from the touch and shiver. "You're all right, Mr. Reese."

"Cold," he rasped from behind the oxygen mask.

"I don't see how someone with a temperature of better than 104 degrees could possibly be cold."

John opened his eyes. Although groggy, he still managed to look annoyed with his boss.

"I know you're uncomfortable, but we need to keep you cooled off," Harold insisted. "If it wasn't for your incision, Dr. Maxwell would've been hosing you down in the backyard by now." He refreshed the cloth and blotted it against John's neck.

Even though he knew it was coming, John couldn't help flinching every time the cloth touched him. He didn't like being fussed over, and the fever was making him even more prickly than normal. "Finch, you don't have to stay."

"Actually, I do. You can't be left alone right now, and I'm afraid Bear doesn't count as adult supervision."

"But if a Number…"

"The Machine's gone silent again. I haven't gotten a Number since the night you became ill. The first time it happened, I thought it was a system malfunction or fluke, but now I think it's you."

"Me?"

"The Machine seems to know that you're out of commission. It also appears that it wants me here with you, or else it would be still sending Numbers as it did when you were on the mend."

John tried to squirm away from the icy touch of the cloth only to send a wave of pain tearing across his belly instead. Grimacing, he clamped his eyes shut and waited for the harsh spasm to pass.

Recognizing his friend's pain, Harold set down the cloth and went to the cabinet where Steve had left his next dose of medication. Before heading out for a few hours of sleep, he'd instructed the hacker to administer the drugs whenever John seemed to need them. Plugging the needle into one of the IV lines, he slowly depressed the plunger. "Easy, John," he said, watching as the readouts on the vitals monitor slowed and his friend began to relax. Disposing of the syringe, he picked up the cloth and resumed his cooling efforts.

Steve had briefly explained to John what he'd found when he'd woken up soon after the surgery, but Harold was unsure how much the man had been able to comprehend. "You have a lot of inflammation that needs to heal. You're going to be sore for a while."

"It's not supposed to choose…"

It took Harold a moment to realize what he was talking about. "It's true. I designed The Machine not to prioritize the lives of specific people over others, however I believe it's expanded beyond its original programming. In the most basic sense, it's just computer code, but on a more complex level, it's an artificial intelligence. It has the ability to independently solve problems, set priorities, and to some extent, evolve. The fact that it sees the lives of its assets as more important is a sign that it's making its own decisions despite its programming."

Harold stopped when he realized he'd been rambling. Even on the best days, he knew John found it difficult to keep up with his technologically wired brain. "On one hand, its independent evolution is something to celebrate. On the other, it raises questions about The Machine's ability to remain impartial in the future. I can try to influence it, but it's shown aggressive resistance to that in the past. It will ultimately do what its ever-changing perceptions tell it to do. "

He looked down to find that John had dozed off. _Well, at least my rants are good for something…_

With a quiet whine, the dog appeared at his side and rested his chin on his master's hand.

"I know, Bear," the hacker uttered, reaching down to stroke the top of his head. "He's trying."

With John asleep, Harold took the opportunity to refresh the bags of ice they'd placed along his sides. They'd managed to stabilize his temperature, but the stubborn fever refused to break. He hadn't been joking when he'd brought up the garden hose. Steve had seriously considered using it or the shower to cool him off until he decided the risks of getting his incision wet were too great. It was probably a good thing too. After John's response to the damp cloth, Harold could only imagine his reaction to the cold water straight up from the well.

Moving the blankets aside, he checked his friend's bandages. The wound was still draining quite heavily, but so far had shown no additional signs of infection. Maybe the antibiotics would prevail after all.

Harold was just finishing tucking John back in when he heard a quiet knock at the door. He expected Steve, and was rather surprised when it was Joss who came in instead. "Detective," he greeted. "I wasn't expecting to see you for some time yet."

"The case resolved itself late last night," she replied, joining him by the bed. "Our suspect was found dead of a self inflicted gunshot wound a few blocks from the station. What initially looked like a gang initiation gone wrong turned out to be an ongoing lover's spat between three men. They all had records with multiple charges for domestic violence. Apparently one of them decided to take matters into their own hands rather than seek professional help."

"Such instances only serve to compound my beliefs on violence," Harold muttered.

Joss took a long look at the sleeping man in the bed, troubled by how fast he'd declined. "How's he doing?"

"As well as to be expected," he replied. "He's only had two doses of the new antibiotic. Dr. Maxwell said it would take at least three before we start to see an improvement – if there's going to be one."

"Fusco told me about the bone and bolt fragment. Who could've known?"

"An x-ray or MRI would have shown it immediately. Dr. Maxwell feels guilty, as do I. John already went through hell once with the initial injury. He shouldn't have to go through this too." Harold plucked off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He could feel a month's worth of fear, frustration, and anger abruptly coming to a head.

"And the worst part – this whole fiasco could have been avoided if people weren't so damn selfish and greedy," he said, rushing on before she could say anything. "You'd think I'd be used to this sort of thing by now given our vocation, but it still feels like the first time every time. I don't like violence. It's seldom necessary and the outcome is never good."

"I know," she agreed. "I see it everyday too – the perpetrators, the victims, and the innocent people that get caught in between. Most officers will tell you that you get desensitized to it, but you never really do."

"We work so hard to prevent it; when it hits this close to home, it makes me wonder just how much of an impact we're actually having," Harold admitted.

"One person can have an effect on hundreds – _thousands_ of others. Every life saved is precious. You know it, I know it, and John knows it. That's why we do what we do and risk it all everyday."

"I'd normally agree with you, Detective, however at the moment, I'm selfishly wondering why we don't consider our own lives to be as precious as the ones we endeavor to save."

"I know you're upset, Finch, and I don't blame you, but I've seen the people you've gotten off the streets. Believe me – you and John _are_ making a difference out there. Now whether or not it's worth the risk…" Joss shrugged. "…That's not for me to decide. But think about it: if you weren't doing this, what _would_ you be doing? What would John be doing?"

 _Mr. Reese would probably be dead…_ Harold thought, recalling how close to the edge the ex-op had been when he'd found him living among the city's homeless. As for himself, he honestly couldn't think of anything he'd rather be doing, especially knowing how the government felt about the safety of average citizens. He'd accepted the risk for himself the moment he began helping Numbers. John showed his acceptance with his steadfast dedication and eagerness to work.

"I see your point," he conceded at last. "I'm sorry I went off on you like that, Detective."

"It's okay. I have to vent sometimes too," Joss said. "I think it means we're on the right side of things. If society's wrongs didn't bother us, than we'd be no better than the crooks themselves."

Harold rubbed his eyes again before slipping his glasses back on and sighing.

"When's the last time you got any rest?" she asked.

"I tried to take a nap earlier, but couldn't get to sleep. I'm all right."

The detective gave him a dubious look. "Why don't you go try to get some rest? I'll sit with John for awhile."

Harold hesitated. He was familiar with the dilemma having already been through it several times during the last month. He knew he needed sleep, real sleep, not the little catnaps he'd been getting since John became sick. But he also didn't want to leave his friend's side. For as familiar as the dilemma was, it was still no easier to resolve.

"You really don't mind?"

"Wouldn't have offered if I did."

"I suppose a few hours of sleep are in order." He gave her a quick rundown of everything that had been and needed to be done. "He just had a dose of pain medication, but if something doesn't look right…"

"I'll get Dr. Maxwell," she replied. "And you." A flicker of relief crossed the hacker's face when she included the second part. As he spoke, he'd changed the water in the dish beside the bed. She watched as he rang out the cloth and passed it across John's fevered brow with a gentleness that was lost on most men.

"He's not very appreciative of this, so please don't take it personal," he said as his friend flinched away from his touch.

"It's hard to be appreciative when you keep making me cold," John uttered, surprising them both.

"He's also a bit cranky."

John's glassy, yet irritated glare softened when he saw whom his employer was talking to. "Carter."

"Hi, John," she greeted with a smile.

"Detective Carter has offered to sit with you for awhile so I can get some sleep. That is unless you want me to stay?"

"Get some rest, Finch. You look like hell," John said, his last words slurring as the drugs pulled him under again.

"I could say the same about you, John," Harold said to the already sleeping man.

Joss grinned, both amused and relieved to know he wasn't as far gone as she'd feared. "He still seems pretty aware of his surroundings."

"For the most part. He's caught both Dr. Maxwell and myself off guard, so please be careful how you approach him." The hacker looked down at Bear who hadn't moved. "I doubt you'll have any trouble from Bear, but if he gets in the way, just send him to his bed."

"They'll both be fine," she assured him. "And speaking of bed…"

Harold sighed. He knew exactly what she was getting at. After retrieving his laptop, he made to leave. "You'll let me know if something changes?"

"You know I will."

Confident that she spoke the truth, Harold left John in the detective's capable hands and headed for his room to sleep.

* * *

Joss was in the middle of rereading a report when she heard a quiet groan come from the direction of the bed. Looking up, she found John unsuccessfully trying push the blankets away. Abandoning her paperwork, she went to see what had the man so worked up. "John?"

His efforts to displace the blankets didn't stop as she approached, and he was clearly becoming agitated. He'd managed to knock the oxygen mask from his face; his breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. At first she thought he was just trying to untangle himself from the sheets, but then realized he was actually trying to sit up. "Uh-uh. No, John. You can't sit up right now. Come on, what's wrong?"

Mindful of Harold's earlier warning, she kept her distance. If John was lost in a fevered nightmare, she didn't want to startle him into striking out. The vitals monitor was screaming, both from the elevated readings it was getting and John's uncoordinated movements. She reached over and turned down the volume, its high-pitched shriek only adding to the confusion. "Please lie back down, John."

Realizing he was either unable or unwilling to listen, Joss changed tactics and began to help him instead. Moving blankets and detangling various pieces of medical equipment, she made it as easy for him to sit up as possible while still keeping her distance. "There," she said once he was finally perched on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. "Is that better?"

"I can't tell."

"You can't tell what?"

"What's real." He scrunched his hands against his eyes, visibly struggling between whatever hell had woken him and reality.

"I'm real," Joss said, not liking the desperate tone of his voice. "I'm real, John. See?" She took a risk and held out her hand. He regarded it skeptically for a moment before slowly reaching up and taking it. The detective nearly gasped when she felt the intense heat radiating from his skin. "My God, John…"

He withdrew his hand from hers and latched onto the edge of the mattress. Even sitting down he was unsteady, the bed seeming to pitch and roll beneath him. He wanted to lie down, but he was too edgy and confused. He knew Joss was there beside him, but through the fog of his fever, even her presence seemed surreal. "Finch?"

"He's sleeping. Do you want me to get him?"

John shook his head and immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of dizziness assaulted him. Groaning, he clutched his aching head and tried desperately to wrap his brain around what was going on.

Joss knew the man was struggling. He needed the doctor, but she didn't dare leave him alone for even a second. Trembling, breathing hard, and blotchy from the intense fever, he seemed to barely even know she was there. Taking the cloth from its bowl of water, she sat down beside him and passed it across his face. Instead of turning away like before, John readily turned into its coolness.

"I looked into the case being brought against Maggie's siblings recently," she said, hoping the distraction of conversation would help him relax. "A trial date hasn't been set yet, but they'll both be going before a judge. They're looking at life sentences for the deaths of their parents, and conspiracy to commit murder for what they tried to do to Maggie. Walter Sullivan is also facing life in prison for murder and conspiracy. Brian Gamble might have a chance at parole someday, but only if the court sees his testimony as a good enough reason to let him free.

"The record shows Mark and Alexis have tried to file plea bargains through their lawyers. Each was asking for a reduced sentence in exchange for testimony against one another and the two men. None of them were accepted. Ironically the prosecutor has a niece who rides at Stepping Pace Acres and won't even consider pleas from the other side. I guess in this case, who you know isn't exactly a good thing."

A faint smile touched John's lips. He seemed to have calmed down a little, but still wasn't acting right. "I hope Maggie's doing okay."

"Last time I spoke to her she was," Joss replied. "She's got a good lawyer and more than enough character witnesses to prove she had nothing to do with her sibling's crimes. And she's definitely grateful you came along when you did. It's a shame we can't tag them with your attempted murder too."

A violent shudder rocked him so hard, Joss heard his teeth click together. "Hey, it's okay."

John's breathing abruptly hitched in his chest several times before settling into a harsh, rapid rhythm. He sagged heavily against the detective, losing his tenuous grip on consciousness.

"John?" she said, her alarm rising when he didn't respond. "John, please wake up."

Out in the hall, a dog started to bark. She'd completely forgotten about Bear. _When did he leave the room?_

The high-pitched, anxious barking continued until a sharp voice commanded the animal to be quiet. There were footsteps, and then Steve, Harold, and Bear hurried into the room.

"What's going on?"

"Is John all right?"

"I-I don't know," Joss stammered. She quickly filled them in on what had transpired. "I wanted to come get you sooner, but I didn't want to leave him…"

"You did the right thing, Detective." Kneeling down, Steve quickly evaluated the unresponsive man. He didn't like what he found. "Harold? Can you help me for a minute?"

Between the two of them, they shifted John away from Joss and laid him down.

"He's burning up," the hacker exclaimed.

"His fever's spiked again," the doctor agreed, scowling at the near 106-degree readout displayed on the digital thermometer. "Can one of you grab a few of the large towels from the bathroom and ice from the freezer?"

"I'll go," Joss said, and hurried from the room.

Harold watched impatiently as Steve ran a manual check of his friend's vital signs before reconnecting him to the monitors. A rapid, arrhythmic beeping filled the room. "What's going on?"

"He's in septic shock," the doctor replied, going to the drug cabinet and quickly searching through the vials.

"What?"

"His blood pressure is tanking. The infection is starting to affect his heart."

Harold felt his own blood pressure sharply rise. "I thought the surgery and new antibiotic were supposed to prevent this?"

"That was my hope." Steve selected several vials and began drawing them into syringes. "But when his abscess ruptured, it flooded his system with toxins. We may have stopped the infection at the source, but it had already had a chance to establish itself and spread. There's still a chance the antibiotics will work. We just have to help John hang on that long." Pushing the drugs though one of the IV lines, he watched the monitors for signs of improvement. It came in the form of a slight rise in his blood pressure. Although it wasn't much, it was enough to even out the arrhythmias that were stressing his heart.

"I turned the ice maker on high," Joss said as she came into the room, her arms loaded down with gray towels and several bags of ice. "Is this enough?"

"It's plenty. Thank you, Detective," Steve replied, taking the towels and going to the sink. Turning the faucet to cold, he thoroughly soaked them before ringing out as much of the water as he could. "Harold, start wrapping him in these. Detective, once the towels are in place, go ahead and pile on the ice, then we'll put another towel over top."

Taking one of the soaked towels, Harold began arranging it around his friend, watchful of the medical equipment and bandages.

Disturbed by the commotion and sudden chill, John's eyes briefly flickered open. "Finch?"

"I'm here, John."

"It's too hot."

"I know. We're trying to cool you down." Harold stepped back to allow Joss in with the ice. Once it was distributed over the top of the towel, he covered it with another to complete the improvised cooling blanket.

With the final towel in place, Steve took John's temperature again, and was relieved to see it had already dropped several tenths of a degree. "Good, this is exactly what we want to see."

"It's hard to believe that less than three hours ago, he was squirming away from a damp cloth and complaining he was too cold," Harold remarked.

"Unfortunately, that's what sepsis does," Steve replied. "One minute things seem to be going well, and the next, they're crashing."

"What do you think…" Joss glanced at John and lowered her voice. He appeared to be sleeping again, but she didn't want him to hear her if he wasn't. "His chances are?"

Steve shifted uncomfortably. "The prognosis for septic shock isn't good, and things can literally change in a heartbeat. Toxins build up, organs start to fail, and then it's only a matter of time before…" He stopped and sighed. Even after years of experience, it was the type of conversation that never got any easier. "I'm going to do what I can to keep him going. As long as I can keep his blood pressure elevated and his temperature under control, then he'll have a chance. If he slips much further, I'll have to put him back on life support, but…"

"No."

Startled, both Steve and Joss looked to Harold.

"If John seriously starts to fail…" the hacker paused when his voice broke. "I…I think it would be best if we let him go."

"That's not really your decision, Harold."

"Actually, it is, Detective."

"John has a living will?" Steve asked.

Harold nodded. "We both do. And we each hold power of attorney for one another. Given the hazards of our occupation, it only seemed right."

"But John's still conscious…"

"If his blood pressure keeps fluctuating the way it is, he won't be for long. The medication I can give him will only work to a certain point. If he worsens beyond it…" The doctor shook his head. "There really won't be anything I can do except relieve pain."

Joss could feel the tears burning her eyes. "You two sound like you're already planning to put him in the ground."

"It's an honor to be entrusted with the duty to carry out a friend's final wishes. At least it is at the time you're asked. At that point, you never think you'll be called upon to fulfill them." Harold turned to her with teary eyes of his own. "Believe me, Detective, this isn't an easy call for me to make. John is my friend too, and as much as I want to see him come through, I can't let him endure unnecessary suffering either."

Unable to keep her emotions in check, Joss left the room. She needed time to come to terms with all that had and was still happening. Harold's decision both angered and disappointed her, but at the same time, she understood his reasoning. If it became clear there was no hope for John's survival, it was best to let him go. The loss would be devastating, but he deserved to be freed from suffering and allowed to continue his journey into whatever lay beyond the corporeal world.

"Are you a praying man, Harold?" Steve asked, unable to control the waver in his voice.

"Not particularly," he replied, his sadness slowly turning into the emotional numbness that preceded an impending loss. "Why?"

"A little Devine Intervention never hurts in a situation like this."

Placing a hand on John's shoulder, Harold was troubled by the heat he could feel even through the layers of wet towels and ice. Bear looked up from his position at his master's side and whined softly. "I know. I don't want to lose him either, but I don't know what else to do."

As if in response to his despair, the dog nosed his long muzzle beneath John's hand and closed his eyes. Under normal circumstances, it would have looked like he was sleeping. But now, as his alpha lay closer to death than life, it appeared as if the Malinois had taken the doctor's advice and begun to pray.

A firm believer in the arts of science, Harold had never possessed much of a spiritual side. But with the marvels of medicine coming up short, he was willing to take a few tentative steps into the largely unknown realm of faith and – he hoped – benevolent beings. Taking his cues from Bear, the hacker closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. _I certainly hope it's never too late to start…_


	18. Chapter 18

Well, this is it. The end. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around for the last 5 months. To those that reviewed, I extend a "thank you very much" - comments are always appreciated. I do have another story in the works, but I'm not sure if it will reach the stage of publication. I'm not... 'feeling the love' toward this story as I did the one that's about to conclude. We'll see. Until then... Enjoy.

* * *

A raspy, almost wet snuffling was the first sound John became aware of as he slowly returned to consciousness. Although vaguely familiar, he still couldn't identify it. Inexplicably tired, he started to doze off again, but the noise just wouldn't go away. With a huge effort, he dragged open his eyes and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

John could feel his other senses slowly coming back online. His vision was the first to clear, followed by touch. He could feel the weight of the blankets covering him and a cold dampness pressing against his sides. He noticed the faint scent of plastic next, and then the obnoxious tickle of air being forced into his nose. His throat was dry and it ached dully when he swallowed.

The snuffling sound came closer and grew in intensity. Unable to ignore it any longer, he turned his head on the pillow and came face to face with Bear, his mouth full of tennis balls.

John instantly regretted the snort of laughter that escaped him when a sharp jab of pain cut through his side. "Ow…ouch…damn it."

"Mr. Reese?" There was the scrape of a chair and a scuffle of footsteps as Harold hurried across the room. "Mr. Reese, are you all right? Do you need the doctor? Let me get him…"

"I'm fine, Finch. Calm down."

The hacker stopped and looked at his friend, not quite believing what he saw. Gone was the disoriented daze of fever and infection, replaced with an expression of alert interest. Although clearly fatigued, John looked more like himself than he had in days. "But…you…aren't you in pain?"

"A little." John looked backed to Bear and grinned. The dog had six tennis balls clutched in his teeth – three clamped along each side of his jaw. "You did it, fella. You broke the record."

"He and Dr. Maxwell have been practicing," Harold explained, offering his partner a small amount of water in a glass. "How do you feel, Mr. Reese? Are you sure you don't need me to get the doctor?"

"I'm all right, Finch," he assured him, eagerly drinking the water. "Maxwell really did this?"

"He feels guilty, John. I think it's his way of making amends."

"It wasn't his fault," the former agent replied, prying the slimy tennis balls from Bear's mouth. "And it wasn't yours, either."

"I should have taken you to a hospital."

"Too risky."

"I could have used an alias."

"Those need to be saved for the Numbers."

"Don't you understand that this could have been prevented, John? Not necessarily the initial injury, but the infection. An x-ray would have shown the fragment and you would have never gotten sick. If I had just taken you to a hospital instead of being so selfishly paranoid…"

"You were protecting me, Finch," John insisted. "And yourself and everything you've worked to create. You did what you had to do. Besides, if you hadn't found Dr. Maxwell, he would have never been reconnected with his purpose."

Harold shook his head incredulously. "You nearly died and you're still more concerned about the welfare of someone else."

"That's my purpose. And yours too, last I knew." John paused and regarded his employer. He could tell there was something weighing heavily on the other man's mind. "Having second thoughts, Harold?"

"About The Machine? Heavens no. But it's difficult to put things into perspective while watching a close friend nearly lose his life not once, but twice inside of a month." The hacker sighed. "Mr. Reese, John, I had to make the call."

"What call?"

"The call you entrusted me to make if you ever became…incapacitated and there was no hope. It was a decision I hated to make, and one Detective Carter didn't agree with. But you were so sick and your chances were so bleak…I just couldn't allow Dr. Maxwell to put you back on the machines. I…I didn't think it was something you would have wanted."

"You're right. It's not." John struggled to think of something else to say. Something that would ease the hacker's mind and reassure him he'd made the right call. When nothing profound came to his still hazy mind, he said the only thing that made sense. "Thanks."

Harold huffed. His friend's response was so underwhelmingly simple, that it could have only come from him. It gave him the confirmation he needed to know he'd done the right thing and, even though he didn't need it, another reason to be glad his call turned out to be unnecessary.

"Watching over you these last couple of days, I've had a lot of time to think. I've been trying to decide when we'll know that the personal risks simply won't be worth it anymore."

"When the expectations change."

"Expectations? The Machine really doesn't have expectations, save for acknowledgement of its messages. And mine are pretty much inline with yours, although our ideals may differ now and then. So unless you mean…oh…" Harold's face went serious as a random thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh, that's very interesting."

"What is?"

"You're suggesting a societal paradigm shift."

John blinked. "I am?"

"Yes. Imagine a society that has become so used to being protected from violence they come to expect it. They stop looking out for their own interests and become reproachful when that protective force isn't there to save them. Good thinking, Mr. Reese. It's not something I had considered myself."

 _That was a jump…_ There was no telling what would cause the hacker to geek out, and John had found himself wishing on more than one occasion that the man had come with a warning label about what topics to avoid. "Call it what you want, Finch, but I'd rather risk my life for someone who appreciates the second chance, not one that feels entitled to it."

The door opened to admit Steve. The doctor's crestfallen expression notably brightened when he saw John was awake. "I thought I heard two voices."

"He woke up a few minutes ago," Harold said.

"That's terrific. How do you feel?"

"Tired. Sore."

"That's going to be the norm for the next couple of days. Your body's been through the wringer. We've spent the last seventy-two hours chasing your blood pressure and temperature. For awhile there, it looked like we were going to lose you."

"I heard."

"It was late yesterday afternoon when we noticed that things were starting to change for the better," Steve continued. "Your blood pressure stabilized and the abnormalities in your heart rhythm corrected themselves. Your fever broke early this morning and your temperature has been slowly coming down ever since."

"Thanks for the save."

A flicker of emotion played across the doctor's face, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "You're a very lucky man. Most people don't survive the type of infection you had."

"I have a good support team," John replied, looking over at Harold.

"I think you got help from a number of sources this time, John," the hacker admitted. Although he was still on the fence about the whole religion debate, he was at least willing to consider a greater power had had a hand in his friend's recovery.

"So did Bear show you his new trick?" Steve asked, going to the sink to wash his hands.

"He did." John took one of the tennis balls and flicked it across the room. It was a weak toss, but the dog eagerly chased it down just the same. "I'm glad you two made amends."

"He reminds me of one of the Shepherds we had as a kid; high play drive, stupidly protective. While you were sick, he refused to eat and it took two of us to drag him outside. I knew it was something you were working on together, and figured it was the least I could…" Another flicker of emotion crossed his face and he cleared his throat.

Harold was right; the man was definitely feeling guilty.

"I know you're pretty tired right now, but I'd like to give you a once over before I leave you to rest. Is that all right?"

John nodded and allowed him to make his checks without interruption. As with Harold, he felt he should say something to help ease the doctor's guilt. It was an emotion he was familiar with, and he knew there was little he could say that would make a difference. All of the reassurance and forgiveness in the world would amount to nothing until the guilt was first assuaged from within and the person holding it was willing to let it go.

"Your temperature's still elevated, but you certainly don't need these anymore," Steve said as he pulled several bags of partially melted ice from beneath the blankets. "Hopefully the fever will be gone completely by tonight." He moved down to check John's incision. "Oh, I also taught Bear to balance meatballs on his nose. He's up to three before he loses concentration and eats them."

"Doctor…"

Steve paused in removing his bandage. "If you're going to tell me this wasn't my fault, please don't. It won't do any good."

"But it was your fault." John saw an expression of absolute horror cross Harold's face. "Your mistake nearly killed me."

"John…"

The doctor shook his head. "No, Harold. Let him finish – he has every right to be angry."

"Why would I be angry?"

"But…you just…how can you not be angry?"

"You didn't do it on purpose. Your resources were limited – you did what you could with what you were given."

Steve looked confused. "You just told me it was my fault and now you're telling me it's not?"

"I had to get your attention."

Harold's eyebrows rose. _Very clever, Mr. Reese…_

"But the infection…"

"It was a complication of surgery, Doctor. There was no maliciousness behind your actions."

"That still doesn't make it acceptable."

"Only to you."

"I don't believe this," Steve muttered, removing the bandage with a quick tug. "You sound just like Harold, you know that?"

"Then maybe we're right, Dr. Maxwell," the hacker replied. "Save the guilt for where it's truly due and accept that you had no control over what happened. Believe me, I have my regrets too, but the choices I made were based on our unique situation and the urgency of the matter. We all learn to work with what we're given. The results may not always be what we intend, but as long as we can say we did our best, that's all that really matters."

The doctor frowned. They both made his mistake sound almost acceptable. And John, who had every right to be angry, didn't seem to be harboring any hard feelings at all. By all accounts, the other man's forgiveness should be a blessing. It was his own conscience that was holding him back.

"Doctors aren't supposed to make mistakes," he said quietly. "We're supposed to fix them."

"You fixed me," John replied. "Twice."

"And only an honest doctor would own up to their mistakes and attempt to set them right," Harold added. "As you have done."

Steve looked down at John. Although pale, bedraggled, and visibly exhausted, he was also awake, alert, and looking worlds better than just twenty-four hours before. Realistically, he knew he'd done the best he could with what he'd been given. Even state-of-the-art hospitals made mistakes – minor, major, and fatal – and they were on the cutting edge of technology, education, and staffing. He'd literally been recruited off the streets, given an ambulance, a makeshift infirmary, an eccentric hacker, and a couple of detectives to try and save the life of a man already a foot and a half through death's door. _Maybe…_ he thought with a faint glimmer of optimism. _Maybe I didn't do that bad after all…_

His epiphany was broken by an explosive sneeze. All eyes turned toward the far corner of the room where Bear was lying on his bed, a tennis ball clutched between his front paws. He was systematically stripping the felt from its surface, covering himself and the floor in green fluff.

"Oh dear. Not again," Harold uttered and hurried over to the dog. "No, Bear. None of that – not in here."

Grinning, Steve turned his attention back to John. His incision wasn't as healed as he would've liked to see, but fighting the systemic infection had taken an immense amount of his body's resources. Now that he was on the mend, the doctor was confident it wouldn't be long before the wound was healed over entirely.

"You're incision is looking good. How's the pain?"

John shrugged. "I'm a little sore."

"There's still some inflammation that needs to go down. I'll take the drain out in day or two; that'll help speed things up. You should be back on your feet in no time." By the time Steve was done cleaning and bandaging the wound, Harold had finished picking up after Bear.

"I will never understand his insistent need to shred and chew," he muttered, picking clusters of fluorescent green fuzz from his suit coat. "You should see what he did to a squirrel he found in the woods the other day. I do hope that poor creature was already dead before he got to it."

John smirked. He was glad to see both men seemed to be feeling better about the decisions they'd made. Guilt could be difficult to overcome, but not impossible. There were events that stuck with you for life – haunting your dreams and sneaking up on you in moments of inattention. Luckily such demons were rare, and experience taught coping skills could be used against them whenever they tried to break free.

"What time is it?" he asked, unable to see the room's clock from where he lay.

"Nearly noon," the doctor replied, collecting the cleaning materials he'd been using.

"Oh, good."

"Good?" Harold echoed, a little bemused by his friend's response. "You just spent the last three days in a fevered coma. Why is noon good?"

"Lunch," he replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm hungry."

Completely stunned, Harold and Steve looked at each other. Had they really just heard what they thought they had? With three simple words, he had quelled the worries that had preoccupied them ever since he'd taken ill. There was no doubt that John was going to be all right.

* * *

Tossing a black duffel bag full of clothes into the trunk, Steve slammed the lid closed and made his way around to the front of his car. It was a beautiful summer morning with warm air and blue, cloudless skies – the perfect conditions for striking out on a new adventure.

"Are you all set with the arrangements I made, Doctor?" Harold asked, limping over to join him.

"Two days to get my affairs in order and then it's off to California. A new house, a new life, a new job…" Steve shook his head. "Stanford. You know, that still doesn't sound right."

"It's highly deserved. You're a highly skilled surgeon and there's no reason why your unfortunate past should keep you from doing what you enjoy."

"Well, I can't thank you enough."

"It's the least I could do for all you've done for myself and John."

Both men turned to look at the side yard. The ex-op was stretched out in a hammock strung between two large trees, trying to persuade Bear to jump up and join him. It was a place he hadn't ventured far from over the past few days, preferring the mild temperatures beneath the shady trees to the over-cooled air of the house. He seemed to be taking his recovery more in stride this time around, and hadn't once challenged the doctor's orders to rest. Everyday marked an improvement, and he was quickly becoming the formidable, yet likable man that Harold had insisted he was.

"Promise me you'll keep him lying low for at least another four weeks?" Steve asked.

"I can assure you he'll get no strenuous work from me. What he may get into while on his own is an entirely different matter."

"He's done quite a bit of healing this past week. He's gaining weight, the infection is gone, and his wound looks really good. He just needs to rebuild his strength and give his ribs a little more time to mend. It won't be long before he's fighting fit again."

Harold raised an eyebrow. The doctor had no idea just how literal his statement was.

Steve opened the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel. He had mixed feelings about leaving. While eager for the chance to start anew, he was also reluctant to leave behind all that had developed during the few weeks. The old farmhouse, the routine, Harold, John, the two detectives, and even Bear would be missed. There was still so much he didn't know about the two men, but he could tell they were good people. They both had a strong passion for helping others – a trait that was rapidly disappearing in today's egocentric society.

"It's going to feel strange working in a hospital again. No more dodging traffic on a bike or throwing belligerent drunks to the curb."

"Do you think you'll miss it?" Harold asked.

"Nope," Steve replied without hesitation. He glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see John precariously lean over and haul Bear up into the hammock. The dog looked alarmed by the swaying motion beneath him, but was quickly reassured by his master's words. He'd said his goodbyes earlier, wishing John the best and insisting he be more careful in his future endeavors. He'd also shaken Bear's paw, and endured a sloppy, wet lick across the face.

"You'll settle back into things soon enough," the hacker replied. "As will John and I."

"You know, you never did tell me what it is you two do."

Harold smiled. He wasn't surprised by the question. In fact, he was surprised the doctor hadn't broached the topic sooner. "We protect people by and large."

"So you're government?"

"No."

"Private sector?"

"To some extent."

Steve frowned. Harold's persistent vagueness made it difficult to piece things together. "You protect people – from what?"

"Various threats. Mostly external sources, but there is the occasional…client that needs protection from themselves."

"How do you know these people are in trouble?"

"That detail is classified, I'm afraid."

"I see… So John was injured protecting someone?"

"A young woman was targeted by her own family. I sent John in to warn her of the impending danger and he inadvertently thwarted an attempt on her life."

"It's admirable work that you do."

"As is yours, Doctor."

"Hardly. You're out there risking your lives everyday. I just make educated guesses as to how to piece people back together again."

"It takes a unique person to handle the pressures and high expectations that are placed on frontline medical professionals. Take some credit where it's due."

Steve conceded with silence. If he'd learned one thing during his time with the two men, it was the ability to realize when arguing wasn't worth the effort. Both John and Harold had strong personalities and when they'd made their mind up about something, it was usually for good reason. Accepting the praise, the doctor started the car and stuck his hand out the window. "Harold, it was nice to meet you. Good luck to you and John, and thank you for the opportunity at a second chance."

Harold took the doctor's hand. "I must say the same to you, Dr. Maxwell. I know life would have gone on if our paths hadn't crossed in the way they did…" He looked over his shoulder. Both man and beast were lying side by side; Bear with his belly turned to the sky and John using one long leg to gently rock the hammock. He smiled. "But I much prefer this outcome to what may have otherwise been."

"Take care, Harold."

"You as well, Doctor." Harold watched with a pang of sadness as Steve put the car into drive and slowly trundled down the driveway. There was a single honk before it rounded the first bend and disappeared from sight forever. Most of the people he'd worked with over the years had come and gone with little emotion spared. Whether it was the duration of their time together or the hellish circumstances that they had endured, Harold couldn't help but feel some regret as he watched the doctor go. Steve would have been a useful resource to have around, both for his medical skills and pragmatic approach under pressure. _And a steady supply of those dark chocolate salted caramel cookies would've been nice to have on hand too…_

He turned and slowly made his way across the yard toward the grove of trees where John was resting. The lawn was freshly mowed and he found the smell of the cut grass appealing. Although not a stipulation of the usage agreement, he'd spent the last few days cleaning the house in preparation for their departure. Steve had volunteered to take care of the yard, and spent the better part of two afternoons on the riding mower he'd found in the shed. The place looked better than when they'd arrived, and that was just how Harold wanted it to be.

"Dr. Maxwell just left," he announced as he approached the hammock.

John didn't look up from the sheet of paper he was reading. "We should be too."

"I was thinking this afternoon." He gave Bear's exposed belly a rub, prompting the dog to thump his hind leg. "If you're feeling up to it, that is."

"Sounds good."

Harold watched as John became absorbed in the paper again. "What are you reading?" he asked when he saw the distant look in his eyes.

"A letter from Maggie," he replied. "Carter brought it the last time she was here. I'd forgotten about it until this morning."

"Mrs. Barton is doing well, I hope?"

"Says she is." The letter was largely an expression of gratitude, but she had included several notes about herself and the horses too. John passed his friend a photograph that had come with the correspondence. Shown were two mottled brown horses standing in the middle of a small corral. On the back, the words "Count and Raven: After the storm" were printed in black ink.

"I thought you said Raven was black?"

"She is. That's mud. Maggie said it took several hours to clean them up after they'd been rolling in the rain."

The hacker frowned in distaste. "And here I thought horses were reasonably clean animals." He noticed the date stamped on the photo. "This happened the day you took ill. I don't know what was more frightening: having lightening strike so close to the house or the rate at which your temperature was rising."

"Finch…"

Harold sighed as he returned the picture. "Don't worry, Mr. Reese. I won't venture down that road again. It's been a difficult few weeks for all of us and I'm as anxious to move on as you." John's gaze had slipped back to the letter in his hands, but that didn't mean he'd stopped listening. "Just know that I'm glad you're all right and I'm grateful to have you back."

"Maggie wants me to come ride with her again."

"Really?" Although he hadn't replied directly to his sentiments, the subtle flash of emotion that played across John's face told Harold he'd heard everything. "Are you going to go?"

"I might. It was kind of fun."

"For what it's worth, I think you should do it. An extra curricular activity that doesn't involve firearms would do you good."

"She wants you to come too."

The hacker was taken aback. "Me?"

"She said she recently acquired a gaited mule," John said, referencing the letter. "He's smaller than the horses and quiet on the trails. She's been using him to give rides to children and thinks his studious nature would suit you perfectly." He regarded his employer for a moment before nodding his approval. "I can see you on a mule, Finch."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

John merely shrugged.

"No. I don't think so. What with my disabilities and all…"

"They've been using horses in therapy for years. It might do you good to use your muscles in a different way."

Harold shook his head. "It's more complicated than that. You understand. It's more of a…a comfort thing…"

John frowned. He wasn't used to seeing Harold at a loss for words. _'A comfort thing?' What does he mean by…oh..._ The significance of his friend's ramblings suddenly became very clear. "It really wasn't that bad."

"How would you know? You were heavily medicated in the days following your experience. You never felt a thing. The prolonged abuse of underutilized muscles would undoubtedly result in severe discomfort that I would rather not…" John's small grin had grown into a rare, full-blown smile. "What?"

"You could use the cushion, Finch."

Harold bristled when he realized he had become a source of amusement for his friend. "For someone who had his own initial misgivings about riding, you have surprisingly little sympathy."

"I'm only offering you what you offered me. And…" he said with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. "It is a really nice cushion."

Harold had had enough goading. "I suggest you get some rest, Mr. Reese. We have a long drive ahead of us this afternoon."

As the hacker stalked away, John couldn't help but chuckle. He knew Harold wasn't really angry, and their banter was all in good fun. He doubted he'd ever be able to change his friend's mind about going for a ride. Smooth gaited or not, the resulting stress on his body would make it even more difficult for him to get around. It was still fun to tease him about it, though.

Tucking Maggie's letter back into its envelope, John reached over and gave Bear a quick scratch. With his feet and belly toward the sky, the dog looked about as dangerous as a wet napkin. An epitome of comfort, the large animal knew how to take relaxation to the extreme.

He settled himself more comfortably in the hammock. He had no intention of falling asleep, but his eyes quickly grew heavy and dropped closed. The last month had been fraught with difficulties, but they'd all managed to come through. Whether it was luck, sheer stubbornness, or the work of some greater power, it was apparent his journey wasn't over yet. He had found his purpose in life, and as long as his expertise was needed, he would continue to do whatever it took to overcome the challenges and persevere.

Nestled next to his dog and surrounded by the warmth of the mid summer morning, John slowly descended toward sleep. They would be returning to the chaos of the city soon, resuming their roles as servants to The Machine and saviors to the Numbers. For now though, he was content to enjoy the moment of peace and let his mind drift toward the future and the unlimited possibilities that it promised.

The End.


End file.
